


Kintsugi

by Andrina_Nightshade



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Adult slaps child, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Badass bisexual Mara Jade, Canon-Typical Violence, Chapter 21: Baby, Chewbacca is the only father figure Rey needs, Chronic Illness, Discussion of attemped sexual assault (but not graphic and not a main character), Dreams, Dreamsharing, Elements of the EU, Endangering others because of personal exceptionalism, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, First Kiss, Force Bond (Star Wars), Frank discussions about contraception (reproductive health is important even in space!), Going against Medical Advice, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Intrigue, Lightsabers, Longing for children, Mara Jade ships it, Masturbation, Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Redeemed Ben Solo, References to Child Abduction, References to child imprisonment, Rey & Rose Tico Friendship, Rey is Not a Palpatine, Slow Burn, The Force Ships It, Trauma Induced Nightmares, Vomit, beheadings, dream baby, executions, mention of babies and children, mentions of past Mara Jade/Harter Kalonia, sexy dreams, the slow road to Bendemption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 134,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23450446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andrina_Nightshade/pseuds/Andrina_Nightshade
Summary: Kintsugi - the art of repairing pottery by mending the area of breakage with golden lacquer.The Resistance is all but decimated. Snoke is dead, and a new Supreme Leader has risen. But amidst the chaos and war, two lost souls find their misbegotten Force Bond is not easily broken... Perhaps the seeds of galactic peace lie not on battlefields, but in the hearts of the Supreme Leader and the Last Jedi.Between the light and dark, there is the balance.There is the Grey....Or: How I wish the sequel trilogy could have played out. Featuring Force Ghosts; awkward dreams; copious consumption of tea; libraries; hair-braiding; slow-burn romance; flame-haired ex-assassins; and a flagrant disregard for canon. Post-TLJ, not TROS compliant.
Relationships: Finn/Rose Tico, Kylo Ren/Rey, Mara Jade/Luke Skywalker, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 211
Kudos: 164





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two people on opposite sides of a war experience very different dreams of each other...

His bed was suddenly too large, too _empty_. What yesterday had seemed adequate was now taunting him. He bent forwards, fingers almost tugging at his dark hair. A scream threatens to escape him – but his chords had grown stiff, hoarse with all the yelling and roaring of the last few hours. Even as she… the scavenger… had slammed shut the door to his father’s blasted piece of space _junk_ , on their bond… on his heart… he hadn’t screamed.

Quiet fury was not in Kylo Ren’s nature. Over the years, he had acquired an inventory of crushed larynxes, destroyed consoles and molten metal as he had taken out each and every frustration with his lightsaber. A controlled man would never achieve such notoriety. Was it only the day before yesterday that he had obliterated his own helmet, that symbol of the grandfather he hoped so to emulate? He had smashed it against the elevator wall, cracked it into dozens of shards. Such was his rage, it was only later, when he removed his gloves, that he realised how badly the act had bruised his knuckles. No matter – a visit to the med bay and judicious application of bacta patches had sorted that particular problem.

Now, if only bacta could calm the burning hole in his heart.

_You have too much of your father’s **heart** in you, young Solo…_

A wave of nausea grips him, and he has to take rapid gulps of air to hold onto the contents of his stomach. Behind his eyes, flashed red and gold and flames. Try as he might, he cannot prevent the assault of memories running through his brain as the enormity of the last few hours caught up with him…

Rey… The scavenger’s screams as Snoke tortured her; Kylo trapped on his knees like a pathetic supplicant…

That heart-stopping moment when he knew, even if the thoughts concealed themselves, that Snoke had to die.

That dumbstruck expression on the face of his _master,_ as the cerulean lightsaber cut through him like paper.

And then, the exhilaration of battle; lightsabers slicing through red armour to the flesh beneath; her body pressed against his as they fought together, his brutality and her scrappiness a perfect harmony. The Praetorian guards crumbling under their combined assault. The stench of burning duraplast, flesh, death…

And then, _relief._ His thoughts once more his own, mind empty of those voices he had grown used to hearing all his life. He was free; free to burn the past to ashes, to truly start anew. His heart feeling fit to burst with the exhilaration of it all. Liberation, sanity, Grandfather’s lightsaber within his grasp – all he had ever sought. And her… Rey… the first person to _see_ him. Not the errant son, the failed Jedi, the dark scion of a powerful bloodline. She had peeled back the layers, looked beneath flesh and muscle and viscera to the twisted soul underneath. She had looked into his eyes, his soul, and he had never felt more naked. She had reached for him across battle lines and light years. She had come to him despite it all, and he would convince her to stay.

Until it had all shattered in his hands.

Until she had betrayed him by running back to the murderers, traitors and thieves, those charlatans who called themselves the _Galactic Resistance,_ and slammed the door shut on their bond.

And then, there was Skywalker…

Kylo shudders. He knows, with absolutely certainty that Luke Skywalker is dead; he can almost convince himself it was at Kylo’s own hands, rather than some form of wretched self-sacrifice-cum-suicide. The humiliation of what happened on Crait would be marginally more bearable.

But he could feel the smirk of the Stormtroopers, hidden within those white helmets, as he strode past them. Hux had not even attempted to conceal his glee at the disaster, and mutters from the generals and officers had skittered across his skin as he stood on the bridge of the _Finaliser_.

The scavenger… Rey… should be here with him, not fleeing with the pathetic embers of the Resistance to hide on some backward planet.

All in, this had easily been the worst day of his life.

 _What were you_ expecting _to happen?_ A chastising voice says into his mind. Not Snoke’s oily tones, nor his own bitter thoughts. If anyone, that voice sounds so eerily like Skywalker’s, that he spins around, half-expecting to see his blue-tinged Force Ghost wearing a sardonic smile.

The room remained blessedly empty.

And silent.

_What did you think Snoke would do to her? See her fire, blazing like a supernova; see her raw power, be moved by her guileless spirit? Take a liking to her, see her as a weapon to be wielded, raw ore to be melted and moulded and shaped into something more majestic? Allow you to teach her, train her, to channel that dizzying and uncultured strength in the Force?_

_Allow you to **keep** her?_

Yes, Maker be damned, that was _exactly_ what he had wanted.

Of course, he now realises his folly.

Had Snoke taken a liking to the scavenger girl, seen her potential, and opted to train her as he had trained Kylo... There would have been no sweet kisses between them, no gentle arms holding him close, no passionate embraces or whispered words of devotion and love.

Snoke would have treated her no different to Kylo, given her only pain, invaded and twisted her mind, poured poison into her. He would have shocked her, whipped her, and beaten any care for Kylo out of her, until she was as much a tool for the Order as he was. He would stamp out the weakness that was their... affection for one another.

Snoke would destroy all that was Rey, and leave her as hollow and alone as Kylo. Another acolyte, another _rabid cur_ , held in check and unleashed as a weapon when convenient…

But with Snoke gone, she would be free. An Empress, elevated from the barren wastes of Jakku and slavery and abandonment. No longer a forgotten, unloved and unwanted child, worth only the credits to purchase another bottle of liquor; but something, someone. Everything… A place – her _rightful place_ – in the galaxy, with one who would treasure her.

Instead, she chose to be nothing.

\---

Hours pass – or it is only minutes? - but the tempest within him quiets. Rage burns hot, but fast, and all that remains is aching emptiness and loneliness.

What if she… the scavenger… _Rey_ … What if she were here, truly here? His traitorous mind manages to supply the images for him…

_She stands near the doorway, draped in a gown of Cyrene silk. The material clings to every curve of her body. Her throat is encased in a heavy necklace, its emeralds glimmering in the light. He watches her remove it, exposing the tanned column of her throat. She lays it casually upon his dresser, fingers grazing the jewels as though she has never seen such beauty before. Something twists in his chest – her childhood, her life, was plagued by deprivation and poverty. He would cater to her every whim, offer her every luxury until the hunger and want of her past was washed away._

_He watches as she begins to disrobe, the dress pooling at her feet. She wears a dark slip underneath, and her long golden legs are bare. Her skin positively glows. He drinks in the sight of her – lithe and strong; muscular yet unmistakably feminine. Her arms are littered with faded scars. A lifetime of pain is engraved upon her beautiful flesh. He vows to caress each one, with tender hands and lips, until her only memory of them is pleasure._

_His dream Empress quirks a smile at him. He watches, breaths shuddering his chest, as she steps out of the dress and approaches his… no, **their** bed. He shifts slightly, and pulls back the coverlet. Then she is with him, curled onto her side, and gentle eyes meet his. His stomach flips as she inches closer, until her breath ghosts across his skin._

_“Goodnight Ben,” she murmurs, and she leans closer to brush her lips to his cheek._

_His arms snake around her, her back pressed to his bare torso, one arm draped lazily across her midriff. Even through the thin silk, her skin is warm. He presses a kiss to her temple, and listens to her breathing steady until she is asleep._

The vision ends abruptly. He curses. The whole encounter had been so… _chaste_ , yet he feels ashamed and dirty.

Snoke’s voice had burrowed into Kylo’s mind since he could remember. There was never a time without those oily tones whispering continuously in his head. Heat flashed in his cheeks as he remembered when he had begun to… _explore_ his body as a young man. Telling him he was unclean, that he was weak, a slave to base desires… Shame was a potent arousal killer, and his body had not stirred more than a half dozen times in the last decade.

Now, his _Master_ was dead. No longer would his body’s natural, healthy desires be a cause of disgust or derision.

And yet, free to explore them, he can’t even fantasise a semi-convincing tryst with the woman he lo-

He bites down on the thought, and buries his face in the pillow with a snarl.

He wants to fantasise about her – to kiss her as he had longed to do in that turbolift. Maker, how tempting those lips had looked in the flickering light. How his eyes had flitted to them, trying not to make his gaze obvious. For a moment, he fancied she was doing the same. The notion to kiss her had crossed his thoughts before he could bury it. Kiss her, hold her, want her… love her…

Kylo sits up, rubbing his face harshly. Mere hours ago, he had screamed his intent to destroy her. He had watched, kneeling on the ground like a pathetic supplicant, as she slammed closed the door to the _Millennium Falcon_ , to their bond… to his heart.

\---

Maybe if these last hours had not been riddled with revelations, torture, death and betrayal, Rey might have found Chewie’s increasing ire amusing. Over the last hour, his growls had become progressively less coherent. At least twice, he had even punched the console of the _Falcon_. Between the scores of kriffing porgs who had stowed away on the ship from Ahch-To, to the scarce dozens of Resistance fighters huddled in the corridors on the ship, he was feeling overwhelmed.

Rey sympathised.

From Crait, they had jumped to the Unknown Regions. The _Falcon_ seemed to creak dangerously with that final hyperspace jump. For an insane moment, she was convinced that the ship would be torn apart by the act. What irony, to escape the First Order only to die in an inferno light years from civilisation.

The _Falcon_ gives another groan. “Garbage”, she had called this ship that day she left Jakku. Only weeks, but a lifetime ago. Garbage, but the garbage was now drifting through space, carrying the last sparks of hope, the final bastion of Resistance against the First Order.

Rey had been wrong about the _Falcon_ – like she had so many things. She had attacked a stranger in the markets of Jakku – he was now the closest thing she had to a best friend. She had sought out a hero whose name had been whispered even in the dark, desolate corner of the galaxy that was Niima outpost, and found only a bitter, fallen idol.

She had even been wrong about herself – inventing a story, a dream, then believing it so deeply and feverently. Loving parents, forced abandonment, a greater purpose and destiny… Instead, she was simply Rey – an inconvenience to be disposed of, a piece of detritus, the means of acquiring more alcohol. Her whole life story the myth of a desperate and lonely child in the darkness.

She was nothing, nobody.

_But not to me._

She shivers, and tries to focus on _anything_ but those words.

She needs to start anew. In every possible way. Stars, she had never even changed her hair before today, always electing for those three buns so that her parents, no matter how long it took them to find her, would always recognise their little girl… She scoffs. Foolish, naïve Rey. She will never wear her hair like that again.

(The words _let old things die_ echo in the air, but if surely she can suppress the truth of her past for a decade and a half, she can quiet _his voice_ in her mind.)

Absentmindedly, she thinks of General Leia, and wonders if she might teach her some simple braids?

Then, Rey shakes her head. The General has much higher priorities than hairstyling. She has a rebellion to lead, a First Order to overcome, a husband to mourn…

And even if Leia did not have to shoulder the weight of the galaxy upon her shoulders, how could she possibly want to spend time with the girl who had failed to bring Ben Solo home…

 _No_ – the voice in her head is firm. Dragging Ben Solo from the darkness of Kylo Ren is no-one’s responsibility but his own. She had offered her aid, but the choice had always been his and his alone. Standing amidst the flames and ashes of Snoke’s throne room, that path to the Light so clear ahead of him, he had made his choice. Power, tyranny... He had chosen the Dark.

He had not chosen her.

Rey stands up, begins to pace.

She passes Finn, who offers her a small smile, his hand still cradling the head of the unconscious girl – Rose, he had called her – huddled in one of the _Falcon’s_ quarters.

She passes Poe Dameron. He nods silently. The blonde-haired woman in his arms – Leia’s aide, whose name Rey thinks might be Kaydel – keeps her head buried against his neck, and the two resume a conversation of whispers.

She passes a group of mechanics and pilots, squabbling over a game of sabaac, as though the world almost hadn’t ended today.

Rey finally makes her way to the cockpit. Chewie’s harsh growl on sensing the intrusion softens when his eyes fall upon her.

 _< Too noisy,>_ he says with a shrug.

A nod is all the response she can muster. Instead, she settles herself into the co-pilot’s chair in companionable silence.

Outside, all is still.

\---

How many hours they sit together, Rey loses count. Only once does he speak to her – asking if she wants to talk about _it._ Her “No,” was perhaps a little too curt, and she brushes a hand against his paw in apology. She does not deserve the hug he bundles her into, but she drinks greedily of his comfort.

One day, she will recount to him the events on _The Supremacy_ ; she cannot find it in herself to bring the topic up with Finn, or even with General Leia. But something soft in Chewie’s eyes tells her that he alone might understand. One day.

Chewie eventually makes a half-hearted excuse about checking the environmental controls, and leaves her alone in the cockpit. The _Falcon’s_ engines hum almost pleasantly in the background. The cabin has grown eerily silent – most of their passengers have fallen into exhausted sleep. Rey feels a weariness in her limbs, her eyes heavy. She too should sleep, but the maelstrom of her thoughts won’t allow that.

She leans back in her seat, exhaling the sigh she has held in these past hours. In the stillness of night, there are no more distractions.

_What the kriff were you thinking, Rey?_

_“If I go to him, Ben Solo will turn.”_

Those words, spoken a few hours ago, a lifetime ago, belong to a different person. A girl who believed in fantasy; that mere words, however sincerely spoken, could turn the heart and soul of a man so twisted that he had committed patricide only days ago.

She reminds herself there is nothing to feel guilt over. But that does not silence the unrest in her heart. She closes her eyes, and tries to block out the words echoing in her head. _“You come from nothing, you’re nothing. But not to me.”_ She buries the image of his gloved hand as it trembled, the quivering of his lips, the gleam in his eyes she had sought to ignore, even as her own had stung with tears.

_“Please…”_

_Please…_

_Please…_

\---

Rey jerks, feeling a stiffness in her neck, and groans. Her temple is pressed against the headrest, and she can feel the imprint of leather against her cheek. _I must have dozed off._ As she lifts a hand to knead sore muscles, her eyes drift to the shape now occupying the pilot’s seat.

But it is not Chewie smiling back at her.

The Force signature is unmistakeable, even if the man is so different that she barely recognises him.

His garb is still dark, but loose, casual. Gone is the oppressive tunic and leather gloves. His hair is ruffled, and she spots the shell of his ear poking out from those riotous dark locks. Even his posture is relaxed, one leg resting lazily on the control panel. A book rests in his lap, and he twirls a stylus between his fingers.

Rey stiffens as he turns. There is an almost bashful smile on his lips, dimples visible on his unmarred cheeks. A false name springs to her lips, but she silences the words.

This man is not Kylo Ren, though they share a face. Gone are the haunted eyes, the dark circles, the scar she had branded him with on Starkiller Base. Kylo Ren is but a phantom, a nightmare to never see the light of day, and there is no sign of him in Ben Solo’s eyes.

Ben carefully lays the stylus down, and straightens his posture.

“You feel asleep,” he says, sounding almost apologetic. “Didn’t seem fair to wake you.”

 _This is a dream,_ she wants to say; but her throat is dry, scratchy. Only hours ago, she had sworn not to fall into dreams again. The truth had been sharp and throbbing as a whip against bare flesh, but the pain had afforded her some clarity.

Hadn’t it?

Then, Ben Solo turns from her. His teeth worry at his lower lip as he dips the stylus into an inkwell and begins to draw. No words pass between them, but the silence is broken by the scratching of a nib against the paper, and the gentle purr of the engines.

“What are you drawing?” Rey is surprised to hear the words escape, that her voice had chosen now to restore itself.

He shrugs. That gesture reminds her so much of Han that something twists in her chest. 

“Just a star chart.”

“May I see?”

He nods, and Rey rises to her feet. She stands behind the pilot’s seat, and watches him in silence for a moment. Watches those hands that have wrought violence and pain move delicately across the page, creating something beautiful.

“Ben?”

“Mmm?” he looks up from his work, and gives her another soft smile.

Rey has no idea where her next words come from. “Will you teach me?”

“How to draw? Of course,” he says. “I’m no artist-“

A soft laugh escapes Rey, and she quirks her eyebrows in response.

“Well, no great artist,” he concedes. “But I’ll do my best. We only have black ink at the moment – but if you wanted a trip, we could go to Chandrilla. There was this little shop in Hanna City that Dad used to take me to – inks of any colour you want, and perhaps we could even get you your own set of styluses as well…”

The next moments shift to a blur. Suddenly, Rey finds herself in Ben Solo’s lap, the sketchbook falling to the floor with a heavy _thud._ Her head is on his shoulder, and he lifts ink-stained fingers to card through her hair. There is another ink-stain on his brow. Rey giggles, lifting a thumb to her lips to wet it before rubbing at the smudge marring his otherwise alabaster perfect skin. His eyes flash comically upwards.

“Oh, kriff,” he mutters, and she watches the tips of his ears flame.

She leans closer, until she feels the heat of his breath dance across her skin. His eyes flicker downwards and settle upon her mouth, in a gaze too close to reality that she freezes for a moment. But the caress of his fingers through her hair soothes her, and she relaxes in his arms. _This is only a dream…_

She leans in, and their lips meet. Just a graze at first, a moment of shared exhalations, before a smile blooms on her face. She shifts slightly, pressing another kiss to his mouth, lips brushing against one another, soft, moist and achingly tender. Heat blooms in her belly, and she tugs a hand to his shirt to pull him closer.

_Not close enough…_

When they part for air, his eyes are lidded and he gazes upon her with something akin to wonder. Rey can feel herself blushing at the intensity of his gaze.

“You’re everything to me, you know that?” he whispers as he buries his head in the crook of her neck, peppering further kisses to the skin there.

\---

A metallic groan roars somewhere in the engine, and Rey starts awake. Fingers move to her lips, half-expecting some taste, some lingering mark of him upon her skin.

Then, nausea rises within her, and she gives the console a kick in frustration.

Something… the Force, maybe… is taunting her, of that she is certain. Or perhaps she is simply tormenting herself.

Will these be her dreams from now on? Haunted by the spectre of a man who never was, never will be? Clutching at smoke tendrils, trying to grasp at the mirage of Ben Solo; a Ben Solo untouched by the malignant influences of Snoke, who never fell to the dark side, never wore the mask of Kylo Ren? Is this simply the latest exquisite torture and lie she had designed for herself?

Seeking a distraction, _anything_ , she fumbles for the book of star maps Chewie keeps beside the pilot’s seat. It feels solid, heavy. Though the _Falcon_ has a decent enough nav holo, Chewie seems attached to the book. Though after the destruction of the Hosnian system, the book is probably now so out-of-date as to be obsolete.

Nevertheless, she opens it, and flips to a page in the Western Reaches. Her eye lands on the Jakku system. She lets her fingers hover over the planet that was her home, her prison.

It might be easier to forget if she were back on Jakku.

The thought sickens her. Go back to scavenging, fighting for survival, half-starved and waiting? Lonely nights huddled in her bunk in _Hellhound Two_ , scratching more useless marks into the wall? (She pushes away the image of herself lashing against that wall with a lightsaber and making it bleed molten metal.)

No, she tells herself resolutely. She will never go back to Jakku. Not now that she has a purpose.

Not now that she has the truth.

_Would you go back to find their graves?_

Back at Niima outpost, there were plenty of scavengers who turned to alcohol as a comfort. A poor one, as she had seen the harsh reality of that in those who succumbed to their demons: hands trembling when they couldn’t rustle up enough credits for a bottle; sweating and hallucinating, clawing at phantom insects under the skin and unseen monsters lurking in shadows. She had seen them grow sluggish, desperate. She had seen their eyes and skin grow yellow and sickly, bellies swelling up though they were starving. When she was ten, one of the older female scavengers had ushered her away as a man clutched at his stomach, vomiting horrible black blood into the street.

She never saw that man again. Another victim of the cruelty of the scavenger lifestyle.

But, when your daily grind was risking life and limb for a few portions, she understood why so many took to drinking to anaesthetize the pain of their cruel lives.

Was that what her parents had tried to do?

“Rey?”

She looks up from the book. “General Organa.”

The woman smiles weakly. “Leia is fine,” she says, one hand still gripping a walking stick. To Rey’s eyes, Leia looks both superhuman and yet impossibly frail and fragile. Her eyes are that of a woman who has endured centuries of pain; yet, she has a heart of durasteel and more courage and resolve than anyone else Rey has ever known. “Care to keep an old woman company?”

There was something sardonic, too knowing, in her tone. A smile crosses Rey’s lips. “Of course,” She murmurs, and watches as the general settles herself into the pilot’s seat… Han’s old seat…

Leia’s face is a mask, impenetrable, but Rey can perceive the frenzied emotions within her. This cockpit, this ship, carries a trove of memories. Of war and of peace; of love, and of loss. Yet, the way she brushes her fingers across the console is almost casual. This could be any ship in the fleet, in the galaxy.

Rey’s eyes flicker to Leia’s hair, in a complex and immaculate braid. The notion again takes her to ask the general about hair-braiding, but the question dies on her lips.

“May I?” Leia asks, pointing to the book still nestled in Rey’s lap. Wordlessly, she passes it to her.

Leia flicks through the pages in silence, her expression unchanged but a thousand emotions flashing in her eyes. She lingers over one chart in particular, when Rey vaguely recognises as being part of the Core Worlds. Her fingers draws small circles over the same empty patch. When she lifts her gaze to regard Rey, those eyes are damp.

“I can’t believe this is still here,” she says with barely a tremble in her voice. “He drew every one of these by hand – some of them from memory alone.”

“Han?”

Leia shakes her head, and something coils painfully in Rey’s stomach. “Given his penchant for destruction, you would never have guessed that my son was quite the gifted artist. Calligraphy too. I saved most of his sketchbooks, everything… Although after Hosnian Prime…” Leia shook her head. “It’s all stardust now. Han must have saved his from before…”

_Before he became Kylo Ren. Before I lost him, lost them both._

Rey blinks, wondering if she can feel Leia’s thoughts, or if she has simply read the change in her expression. The grief of a widow, of a mother.

“The last thing I said to Han,” Leia says softly, “Was that if he saw Ben, to try and bring him home. Even then, even after,” her voice grew hoarse, and she had to clear her throat. “I still held the hope that he might come back to us. Even now, I still do. There’s part of me – the rational part – that knows he is lost forever. But hope has little to do with rationality.”

Rey bows her head – the gleaming in Leia’s eyes is threatening to spill over, and she wants to offer even a modicum of privacy if she can. And if it means the general doesn’t see the same pain in Rey’s own eyes…

Leia sighs a moment later. “I remember Han buying him this book. He used to take him to this little shop on Chandrilla…”

Leia’s words become distant – Rey can see the movement of her lips, but no sound. Chandrilla… The star maps… That dream, a twisted parody of their last interaction…

Pain blooms at her temple, and she barely suppresses a wince.

Then, there is a soft hand at her shoulder.

“Rey, are you all right? You’ve gone pale. Do you want me to fetch Dr Kalonia?” The tenderness in Leia’s eyes is almost too much to handle.

Rey shakes her head, which only makes the pain worse. “I think,” she says tightly, “I think I’m just tired.”

Leia’s hand lifts, and she brushes it across Rey’s forehead. She can see a frown cross the General’s lips. “Is something…?”

“You have ink on your face,” Leia says almost absentmindedly. Rey lifts her own fingers, and finds a small smudge on her thumb.

The thumb her dream-self had used to wipe the same stain from Ben Solo’s brow.

A growl of Shriiwook from behind pulls Leia’s attention from Rey. Chewie enters the cockpit, and quirks his head at the two women. _< Everything all right, Princess?>_ He then lays a hand on Rey’s shoulder _. <You need sleep, Little One. Long day, and you already carry many burdens. Go rest. Princess and I will take over navigation.> _He lets out what must pass for a chuckle.

Rey nods, and bids a polite farewell to the General. Chewie wraps her in his large arms. His fur is soft and ticklish, and she breathes deep of his scent. The scent of belonging, of knowing she is loved.

She makes her way through the _Falcon_ ; sidestepping snoring Lieutenants, past mechanics slumped over the Dejarik table, and a small family of Porgs who had nested in the wiring. The chicks were asleep, but the mother Porg seemed to look at her quizzically.

Rey finds the room she had seen Finn in earlier – he is currently slumped against the bunk, snoring loudly. Someone has thrown a threadbare blanket over him. His head is almost touching the brow of the still sleeping Rose, as though to check she is still breathing.

The bunk above Rose remains unoccupied. Rey has made difficult climbs in her time as a scavenger; making her way to the bunk without disturbing Finn is easy enough in comparison. He gives a loud snort, and she whispers his name. But he merely turns his head and continues to sleep.

\---

Hours pass, but sleep proves too elusive a beast for Rey to tame. Her thoughts are too turbulent to allow her any respite.

Rey’s mind drifts back to the sketchbook, and those beautiful, hand-drawn star maps. A pang of jealousy snapped at her.

There was no room for art, for beauty, for indulgence in the childhood of Rey of Jakku. No expensive calligraphy sets, no luxurious hobbies, no leisure time. There was only loneliness, the hunger pangs of an empty belly, aching muscles from another day of scavenging. The years only brought blistering desert heat, fewer portions, less love…

_“You had a father who loved you! He gave a damn about you!”_

A father who walked out onto that bridge offering love, forgiveness, a path home… and was cut down by the child he had ventured halfway across the galaxy to save.

The boy who would become Kylo Ren had never known starvation; had always had warm arms to hold him. He had the kriffing _Force_ , and an instructor to nurture his skills from a young age. He was the son of heroes, the product of an illustrious bloodline…

_“You come from nothing, you’re nothing. But not to me.”_

Ben Solo had _everything,_ and he had _still_ fallen into the dark.

How easily that starved and lonely girl on Jakku could have fallen. The promise of a full belly, agency, and power, ought to have been too much for her resist. But Rey had stayed true to the Light, to her friends, to herself.

But even if she _had_ fallen, no-one would have come to pull her back. A scavenger from epicentre of nowhere, a neglected and forgotten child, a slave – from whence would a saviour have come for her?

Ben Solo, with his sad eyes and haunted gaze… He would not earn a drop of pity from Rey ever again. Tears were the luxury she could not afford. When every drop of water was an exertion, tears were a waste, and on the Supremacy, in the ashes of Snoke’s throne room, she had already cried too much for him.

Just as her lids grew heavy, and sleep began to claim her did she remember the mysterious ink stain on her brow…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, was anyone else left a bit unsatisfied by The Rise of Skywalker?
> 
> A canon-divergent fic, featuring Force Ghosts; awkward dreams; copious consumption of tea; libraries; hair-braiding; flame-haired ex-assassins; and a flagrant disregard for canon. That's not to say I loathe everything about TROS - I plan to borrow occasional elements which I don't hate, but otherwise, consider this AU from the end of The Last Jedi.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three generals plot their next move as the battle for the galaxy begins to intensify. Tea and Correllian brandy are the stuff on which rebellions are fueled.

Leia prefers love over grief.

Grief, after all, is love without focus, without a conduit to direct it.

She loved her parents, and within her they had fostered a love of Alderaan, its people and its culture. Though Breha and Bail Organa, and their home were but stardust now, Leia redirected that love into a passion for their cause. She was always destined to be a rebel princess, but she fought the Empire with more vigour after the destruction of Alderaan. And, in those almost peaceful years without battles and wars to fight, she turned her love into a passionate dedication to preserving Alderaanian culture.

She had loved Han – not in the simple, storybook sense. He had made her heart flutter and her blood seethe in equal measure. He had challenged her, soothed her, needled her, and delighted her. _The Princess and the scoundrel_. She felt an ache in her cheeks, and realised that her lips had moved themselves into a smirk. It was grief that soured their love – grief and anger for their lost boy; now the dark and troubled spectre hunting her and her people.

Han had retreated to his old ways, and she to hers. Smuggling and rebellion – the twin drugs which sustained them in those lonely years apart, made more solitary by Luke’s absence from her life, and from the Force.

In mere days, she had _truly_ lost both her husband and her twin. Permanently. Both of them sacrificing themselves to save Ben from himself, from the Darkness.

Perhaps it was time to admit that it had all been in vain.

Love had brought back Darth Vader – the love for his child had forced him to throw off the shackles of darkness, of Palpatine. Somehow, Luke had awoken something within Anakin Skywalker’s heart and brought him back to himself.

Leia had never considered Anakin her father – Bail Organa was the only father she had ever needed, the only one she had ever wanted. Many had found it unusual that the adopted Princess had expressed so little curiosity in learning of her biological family. Wasn’t that how the stories were meant to be? Shouldn’t she have wanted to know, to understand where she came from?

But for Leia, it was simple. Bail and Breha Organa raised her, nurtured her, loved her; that they shared no blood was trivial and irrelevant. Family was warm arms and kisses, bedtime stories, a sense of complete trust and belonging.

Perhaps that was why she had hidden the truth of her horrific bloodline from Ben…

“Princess – Ah, General,” C3PO’s mechanical whine interrupted her musings. “I took the liberty of brewing you some Gatalentan tea. Though I must say, the box was rather dusty and I fear it may be a little stale.”

Leia turned to face the droid, and gave an appreciative nod as he handed her a chipped cup, the scent of spices catching in her nostrils. Han had always kept a small stock of Gatalentan tea hidden in the galley. He had also expressly forbidden her from drinking it in the cockpit, but even in her grief, she couldn’t resist a small mutiny against him.

“Thank you, Threepio,” she said in a voice so heavy and thick she scarcely recognised as her own.

“You are welcome, Princess – ah, General Organa,” came the flustered reply. Well, as flustered as a droid could be. “Alas, I could not find any nectar or cream, so it may not be entirely to your preference, but-“

“Threepio, its fine.”

The droid quirked it’s head. “May I enquire as to where are headed? Forgive me, but we do not currently appear to be moving.”

Leia’s hand trembled – imperceptible to C3PO but Chewbacca clearly noticed, and his growled response was enough to send the droid into a few agitated movements, before retreating back to the main cabin muttering about “Wookie manners.”

_< Droid probably worth more if we sold him for scrap parts.>_

The General took a long sip of her tea - C3PO had been correct, the taste was blander than she normally enjoyed, the tea’s aroma no doubt having evaporated in the years the box had spent at the back of a cupboard. Han never touched the drink – he was strictly a caf or Correllian brandy man.

Her temple throbbed. Love, not grief, she reminded herself. But Leia Organa had never been particularly skilled at self-deception. Eventually, that pain would catch up with her. But not today.

Sounds flittered in as the cabin came to life – shuffled footsteps, murmured chatter, the whizzing chatter of Dameron’s astromech, and the clink of cups as someone brought in a pot of caf. All that remained of the Resistance.

Amilyn Holdo – wonderful, powerful, pragmatic Amilyn – had called them “the spark”. The spark that would light the fire, restore the Republic, burn the First Order to ashes. Right now, all Leia saw was the last embers of a weary and grieving group.

She reaches for the book of star maps Rey had been perusing last night.

Every inch of this cockpit was memory – from nestling in Han’s lap in the pilot’s chair, sharing lazy kisses as the ship moved through hyperspace; to soft kisses developing into urgent desire and passion in the captain’s bunk; to watching her Little Starfighter race around with a toy X-wing in hand, pretending to pilot the Kessel Run _“just like Dad.”_ The book in her hand is no different. She remembers watching over Ben as he sketched, that little furrow in his brow anything he was concentrating particularly hard. 

How had that little boy grown into the phantom hunting them? The man who had plunged a lightsaber into the heart of his own father, who had fired without mercy at the _Raddus_ , knowing full well his own mother was upon the bridge?

With Ben, all she can feel now is grief.

Leia drums her fingers against the cover of his old sketchbook, and once again her mind drifts to Rey. Though they had quietly grieved for Luke in the main cabin, and shared those quiet moments in the cockpit, Leia sensed there was something else troubling the girl’s heart. She and Chewie had left D’Qar less than a standard week ago, her eyes bright and eager, purpose in her step. Yet, the girl who sat holding the broken shards of Luke’s lightsaber in her hand was different. There was fire there, that spark of defiance and determination, but Leia sensed a new dejection about her.

Chewbacca, when pressed on the subject, had merely retorted that it was Little One’s story to tell, not his. And then a few of those kriffing birds had floated into the cockpit and began to attack the wiring. Any further questions died on Leia’s lips as she and the Wookie shooed them out.

The sound of a throat clearing draws Leia back to the present. Poe Dameron leans against the entrance to the cockpit. He looks drawn, tired, with bloodshot eyes rimmed by dark circles. Although he tries to maintain his casual demeanour, Leia can see a new tightness to his posture. There is a hollowness to the smile he flashes her, briefly, before his face grows solemn.

“General,” he says, and the circumspect tone makes her cringe.

Leia can almost hear the calm, steady voice of her mother. _Authority can be given, but leadership must be earned._ So the time has come to pack away her grief, her loss, her suffering. One day, she will allow herself to cry. But today, she has a rebellion to lead.

“Captain Dameron,” she says evenly, and gestures for him to sit. She opens the book in her hands, and begins to flick through pages of the Outer Rim territories. “I suppose it’s time we look for a new base… Any suggestions?”

* * *

All in, Armitage Hux mused as he moved a wickedly sharp razor over his foam-covered chin, Crait had probably been the worst propaganda disaster of his military career.

Not that he was to blame for the whole thing. Kriffing _Kylo Ren_ , the new _Supreme Leader_ (and his blood boils at the very thought) had wrought this. Falling for Skywalker’s pathetic Force projection, squandering their firepower on a mirage, and allowing the rebels to flee like womp rats from an inferno. This ought to have been the First Order’s greatest triumph.

Instead, it would go down as a colossal humiliation.

He hisses as the razor catches his chin, and a few drops of blood stain the sink. _Don’t slit you own throat, Armitage,_ he thought, _Ren would be more than willing to do it for you._

A former lover (on the rare occasion he entertained a woman on the ship) had remarked once Hux ought to save time and allow one of the grooming droids to shave him. But a man constantly plotting knows that others plot too. It would be absurdly easy to re-programme the droid for assassination.

He rubs the towel against his chin with a little too much force. The after-ointment, heavily scented and oily, stings where he had sustained his cut. Certainly nothing that bacta wouldn’t disguise.

As a General, he had decent-sized quarters, a private ‘fresher, and best of all, a viewport. The _Finalizer_ is currently careening through hyperspace, and the room is bathed in a pale blue light. If Armitage Hux were a man of imagination, he might consider it ethereal.

But such fancies are not befitting of his rank and position.

Life on a dreadnought is preferable to life planet-side. There is a pleasant hum to the engines as they move which always seems to settle on his soul. He breathes deeply of the air; sterile and still, with none of the chaotic breezes and winds he so detests. There is beauty in order – the rhythmic march of Stormtroopers, the precision and regimentation of his schedule, even the predictable meals. Order is safe, dependable.

But something has shifted in the air today; the same something that had gripped him when he had happened upon the smouldering aftermath of the massacre on _The Supremacy’s_ throne room.

He feels the crackle of entropy, and his hand curls into a fist.

He dresses slowly, methodically, carefully inspecting each item for the merest crease before he dons it. Shirt, trousers, jacket. His boots are polished to a mirror-like shine, and he slicks his hair back with practiced ease.

Cup of steaming caf in hand, Hux sits at his desk. His datapad screen is flickering to life when he gazes at the cracked chrome helmet beside it, sparkling with the blue light of hyperspace. Sentimentality was not in his nature – but Phasma had been the closest thing he had to a friend. He snorts – of course, she would be the first to mock him for keeping this token of her – and probably draw unflattering comparisons with Ren’s Darth Vader worship too. A woman who could kill both her parents and her benefactor without compunction or guilt had no need for sentiment. Still, as a competent and decorated military officer, she deserved some sort of remembrance.

Phasma, were she still alive (and damn the rebel scum who had killed her – Hux would see them burn) would want his focus to be solely on the Order.

He picks up his datapad, and opens the day’s military reports from their fleet in the disparate corners of the galaxy. Normally, perusing reports would soothe him. But not today.

Since Supreme Leader Snoke’s death, Ren had been moving to consolidate his power. All the senior officers and ship captains had been called to the _Finalizer_ to meet in a few hours. With the loss of Phasma as well, Hux sensed a vacuum arising.

Whispers about Ren’s stability (and even his potential complicity in Snoke’s assassination) were already creeping through the First Order.

Rumours were powerful and dangerous – properly cultivated, the right whisper could topple an Empire. Hux seldom believed gossip, but deep in his marrow, he suspected this particular one to be true. He snorted – a mere scavenger, barely trained, cut down the Supreme Leader, a legion of Praetorian guard, _and_ best Ren in combat? True, the Jedi were powerful, but then again, _she_ was no Jedi.

No, Ren was involved somehow… But until he had indubitable proof of that guilt, Hux would remain silent.

The _Finalizer_ shuddered out of hyperspace, and the blue glow faded. Hux crossed his arms behind his back and stared into space. The First Order’s entire fleet of dreadnoughts began to appear in his vision. Soon, the sky would fill with small command ships, bringing antagonists and sycophants to the inaugural war council of the new _Supreme Leader._

* * *

As he stands in the hanger of the _Finalizer,_ waiting for the dignitaries and generals to arrive, the first thing Hux is notices is Kylo Ren. Or rather, his absence. He bites his lip to stop the smirk blooming on his face. _A poor show indeed,_ he thinks. _What must Leia Organa think of you?_

Whilst he had never truly been in Snoke’s confidence, the deceased Supreme Leader had shared the occasional morsel of information. And that which had shocked and delighted Hux most was when Snoke had revealed Kylo Ren’s real identity. The phantasm behind the mask, with the electronic voice and pale imitation of Darth Vader, was none other than the man’s own grandson, born of two of the Galactic Rebellion’s most renowned and charismatic leaders. 

Vader had been a menace – but an even one, like a well-trained beast. Ben Solo, Kylo Ren or whatever wretched moniker he choose to hide behind, was naught but a pathetic facsimile. Maker knows the old tyrant must be turning in his grave.

Strange though it would be, Hux acknowledged a certain respect for General Leia Organa. Not that he would ever admit it out loud. Oh, their politics were different, and he would gladly see her and her motley band of rebels blown to dust – but he could still admire the woman. A backbone of durasteel and a clear head were something to be admired in one’s enemy. (If, deep down, he hoped she bore him a measure of the same grudging respect – well…) She may have pandered to and promoted Dameron above his strategic competence, but everyone has their faults.

And Hux was certain of one thing. If she could see the political quagmire that was her son’s first day in command of the First Order, she would surely die of shame.

The arrival of the first command ship pulls him from his thoughts, and he checks the time on the chrono. Another two standard hours until the war council is due to commence. He glances at his datapad to approve the landing. An Upsilon Class vessel – sleek and beautiful. Only a few select officials were granted such a ship…

Hux steps forward as the vessel’s ramp descends. Through the hissing cloud of air, he recognises the sallow figure dressed in black who emerges. Of course, _he_ would be the first to arrive.

Allegiant-General Enric Pryde… Hux wrinkles his nose, hoping the man far enough away not to notice. An old relic of the Empire days, in the aftermath of Palpatine’s death, Pryde had miraculously avoided both death and imprisonment. Instead, he had burrowed his way into the fledgling First Order, and crawled his way up the ranks to command of the _Steadfast_ – a smaller ship than the _Finalizer._ Yet, Snoke had awarded him the rank of Allegiant-General, the only holder of that title in the entire First Order fleet. Irritation crackled in Hux’s blood. Snoke had trusted Pryde, in a way he had never trusted Hux, or even Ren.

“Allegiant-General,” Hux says, standing straighter and tucking his arms more tightly behind his back. “Welcome to the _Finalizer.”_

“General Hux,” comes the reply in a thin, reedy voice. Pryde’s beady eyes seem to rove over him. A prickle of discomfort creeps over Hux’s skin, as though the older man were stripping and measuring him. A beat passes, before he reaches out a gloved hand, and two man share a perfunctory handshake.

Pryde makes an obvious show of looking around the hanger, at the precise lines of Stormtroopers in their gleaming white armour, at the officers clad in identical black to their rear. He cranes his neck to gaze at the main entranceway to the ship. “Our new Supreme Leader is not here?” At Hux’s silent ascent, Pryde clicks his tongue. “Unsurprising, of course. The late Supreme Leader Snoke was not given over to many public appearances either. It kept up an air of mystery, one supposes.” His voice drops. “A pity to be recalled from the Bryx sector when we are making real headways… I do hope the Supreme Leader doesn’t intend to keep us away for long. But, no matter.” His lips quirk into a smile – or, rather, the eerie approximation of one, that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Walk with me, General Hux?”

 _No,_ he wanted to say, jutting his chin out like a petulant child. But respect for rank was something that had been drilled and beaten into Armitage Hux at his father’s knee (although Ren’s leadership would surely prove a test to that quality). Pryde was the sole military officer whose rank exceeded his own. So instead, he gave a perfunctory nod. “Of course, Allegiant-General.” He gestured a gloved hand towards the exit.

No words passed between them as they crossed the hanger, past rows of Stormtroopers, past the fleet of TIE fighters Hux had ordered washed and buffed until they gleamed with mirror-like shine, and past the line of black-clad analysts and low-ranking officers waiting to greet the _Finalizer’s_ incoming guests.

Throughout, Pryde continues to stare and makes small noises which Hux interprets as criticism. He seems to spot every miniscule flaw, from the Stormtrooper (TZ-1365, Hux makes a mental note) shifting uncomfortably on one leg, to the motes of dust floating in the air, to the two analysts sharing a whispered joke near the hanger exit.

Hux gestures to a turbolift, and Pryde enters first. He enters the code for the bridge, and they begin to move as the mechanisms give a pleasant hum.

“Have you ever been aboard the _Steadfast_?” Pryde says after a minute of silence.

“I cannot say that I have had… the pleasure,” comes Hux’s guarded reply.

The older man smirks. “Then, perhaps after the council meeting, you might consider joining me for a tour. Whilst we may be a marginally smaller vessel, we have had much success in our consolidation of the Mid Rim.” The lights of the turbolift flicker for a moment, only accentuating Pryde’s waxen skin.

“I _do_ read the daily reports from your captains,” Hux says in as even a tone as he can muster. Pryde’s ongoing scrutiny of his person sends prickles of discomfort down his spine. Unbidden, a hand comes to his collar and tugs at it to loosen the tension in his throat. He can almost see his father’s sneer, hear Brendol Hux’s taunts about never showing weakness, and how _disappointing_ a son he was.

A chuckle escapes Pryde. “I would expect nothing less from an eager young General. Of course, if I can’t tempt you with a military inspection… Then perhaps a glass of brandy and the chance to make an ally might make the trip worth your while?”

Hux hesitates for a moment. It goes against instinct to refuse a command from a military superior – and no matter how cordial the language used, this is more command than invitation – although, with Ren as the current Supreme Leader, he may have to adjust that instinct somewhat.

No, there is something about Pryde, something slippery and snake-like and all-too-knowing which fills his stomach with something akin to dread. He cannot trust this man – but that hardly makes him unique amongst the higher ranking First Order personnel. And better to at least attempt to make an ally than refuse and find himself with another powerful adversary…

“Perhaps it might,” Hux says. Pryde merely nods in response, his expression inscrutable.

* * *

Hours later, Hux finds himself in Pryde’s quarters on the _Steadfast._ Sterile and minimalist; the only personal touch is an ornate cabinet beside his desk, made of heavy expensive wood with a patterned glass door, a piece of furniture which would not look out of place in the Imperial palace of old. Hux wonders how Pryde acquired it, as even the salary of a First Order general would not quite cover the cost. The image of him scavenging in the palace ere the Emperor’s body was cold fills his mind, and he has to bite down on a threatening smile.

The Allegiant-General lifts his glass of Correllian brandy – an older vintage, rarely found outwith the finest wine cellars. Pryde either had expensive tastes, or was wanting to impress him. “To the Supreme Leader.”

Hux’s lips make a moue of distaste behind his glass. Today’s meeting, whilst not the unmitigated disaster he had anticipated from Ren’s maiden war council, had still been far below the standards Hux expected of his Supreme Leader. True, the man at least managed to get through the whole thing without Force-choking any of the officers, or destroying the console with his lightsaber in a juvenile tantrum. But he had appeared distracted at best. At one point, Ren had even sat bolt upright and stared into the distance as though gazing at something… someone… unseen to all but him, and otherwise dead to the debates raging around him.

When the issue of the so-called Galactic Resistance came up, Ren merely brushed the speaker aside, with a muttered comment about not wasting resources on a few thieves and charlatans. Clearly, the embarrassment of the Crait debacle still hung over him, and he had hurriedly changed the topic.

 _Not so easy to hunt down and kill mummy, is it?_ Hux had thought, then focused on a finance report in front of him, lest Ren catch wind of his taunting thoughts.

Now, in the present, he tips his glass. “To the Supreme Leader.”

“It seems to me,” Pryde drawls, swirling the amber liquid in his own glass, “That our First Order has a great deal in common with the Empire of old.” His tone is monotonous, as though he were reciting an obscure amendment to tax laws. “History does not necessarily repeat itself, but it does rhyme. We ought to be cautious that we do not make the errors as our predecessors. At least, any further errors.”

The word _Starkiller_ seems to echo in the silence. Hux clenches his gloved hand into a fist. His pet project, destroyed before it’s true power could be wielded. Just like the Death Star of old – obliterated by a small band of vermin (led by Ren’s own parents, Hux remembers – perhaps one of the reasons he had vehemently shot down Hux’s request for resources to create another).

“And what,” Hux says tightly, “Would you say the errors of the Empire were?”

“Emperor Palpatine was powerful – perhaps _the_ most powerful Sith lord to ever live. But he put too much stock in his apprentice, Vader. He saw raw power in the Force, but neglected to see that Vader might one day prove too difficult to muzzle. Supreme Leader Snoke was, in many ways, like the Emperor. A dominating, formidable presence. More than a mere man. Ren, for all his party tricks and tantrums, cannot compare. You see, Armitage… Our leaders have put too much stock in the Force and its vagrancies. Tell me,” he leaned forward, “Do you know much of the mythology of the Sith?”

Hux leans back, and downs the remainder of his glass in a single gulp. If this evening were to devolve into a lesson on ancient, defunct cults, he hoped to be riotously drunk by the end of it. “Sith, Jedi… Two dead religions. Ren is too undignified to be either. What does this have to do with the First Order?”

“The Rule of Two,” Pryde answers. He waits a few moments before continuing, until he could see an obvious frustration rising on Hux’s face. “One master, one apprentice. No more, no less. One to wield the power, the other to desire it. Ascension only happens once the apprentice has slain the master. Then he seeks out a new apprentice, despite knowing that they will be his eventual downfall. But, as you say,” he finishes, inspecting the contents of his glass with feigned interest, “Ren, for all his ‘dark side devotion’, isn’t worthy to be a Sith Lord. Certainly not the next Vader, no matter how deeply Snoke tried to cultivate that in him.”

Hux grew pensive for a moment. “You think that Ren might decide to take on an apprentice of his own?”

“I can see one Force user who might already have accepted that role.”

“The scavenger girl from Jakku,” Hux spat. “The one who killed Snoke. You think Ren put her up to it?”

Pryde grins wolfishly. “I can see one of two scenarios – either the girl has for greater training and Force abilities than we anticipated, and she truly is Ren’s enemy. Or, she did not alone kill Snoke and his guards, yet leave Ren with barely a scratch. Minus, of course, that lovely scar she is supposed to have branded him with.”

At Pryde’s statement, Hux feels himself relax, albeit minutely.

“Not that I disagree with his choice to… amend the official story behind Supreme Leader Snoke’s passing,” Pryde continued. He reached for the bottle and replenished his glass, before gesturing to Hux and repeating the motion. “Otherwise we gift the Resistance a fantastic propaganda tool. The last of the Jedi – a natural heir to Skywalker, a symbol of hope. A very fitting opponent for the so-called Jedi Killer.” Pryde leans back in his chair. “I hope you’ll forgive me, Armitage,” he says, ignoring the cringe on Hux’s face at the casual use of his name, “But one can’t help but listen to gossip on occasion. Sometimes, it is the only decent amusement one can drum up in hyperspace. Though I have found it often to be of some value. Scuttlebutt is that there is no great love lost between yourself and Kylo Ren.”

“Mere rumours, I assure you,” comes the strained reply, with a forced smile that fails to meet his eyes. “I would perhaps acknowledge a gentle rivalry with the man – what general doesn’t have the odd tension with a… peer? But I assure you, my loyalty is first and foremost to the Order and to its ideals.”

“That does not necessarily mean loyalty to the figurehead,” Pryde says, steepling his fingers.

The chair scraps against the floor as Hux rises to his feet, his face turning puce and his jaw tight. “Do you suspect me of treason, Allegiant-General?”

Pryde raises his hands as if to placate the man before him. “I accuse you only of having ambition, Armitage Hux. A man does not rise to your position without it. Although, it is interesting how one can easily grow into the other. Besides, under whatever vestiges of New Republic law still remain, treason is defined as an action. Acknowledging that your military leader is an intractable, petulant bastard is merely venting.” At his Hux’s stunned silence, Pryde continues, “I have some… concerns, regarding Ren’s leadership of the Order. I am merely… glad, to know that I have an ally in these thoughts. And I hope that is how you would come to see me, in time. I wield a lot of influence in the First Order, Armitage Hux – I am a powerful friend to have, and a dangerous adversary. An ambitious and clever young man – much like yourself – could use me.”

It was almost as though he could see the mechanisms working behind Hux’s eyes, the battle between his distaste for Pryde and his not-so-secret desire for power. The colour faded from his cheeks as he chewed his lower lip. “So, if the time were to come…?”

Pryde rose, and held out his hand. “I would stand behind you, Armitage Hux.”

The leather of their gloves creaks as they shake hands, and share a twisted smile.

“To the First Order?” Hux says.

Pryde nods sagely. “To the First Order.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> Leia's opening thoughts are inspired by this post from the blog This Girl Unravelled: https://kathyparker.com.au/2017/01/02/grief-is-just-love-with-no-place-to-go/


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If a dream is a wish your heart makes, then perhaps Rey isn't being entirely honest with herself... Will the Force permit her and the object of her ire/affection to have a mature conversation on the topic? Probably not...

Rey can feel Kylo Ren haunting her.

It starts with a figure in her peripheral vision. A flash of black leather as she shares breakfast with Finn, Poe and Rose on the _Falcon_ ; there and gone in an instant. Or hears the creak of his gloves whilst she adjusts BB-8’s antennae, losing her train of thought.

Sometimes she hears the timbre of his voice. Scattered words, without context, but they still send a frisson of… something, down her spine. 

Sometimes it’s the flash and crackle of his lightsaber. 

Sometimes, it’s nothing tangible, merely a presence, a tingling feeling at the back of her mind. She waits for the shifting air, that softly intrusive hum as their bond creaks open. 

But the moments never last. 

It takes a few days before the realisation comes to her. Even as she had slammed their bond closed, it had remained open. Snoke had taken credit for this strange occurrence, boasted of his power, his manipulation, before Kylo had rewarded his hubris with blood and death. With his demise, it should be gone. Permanently.

Perhaps these fleeting moments were but the echoes of that influence.

Yet, even as she waits for freedom from this twisted bond, from _him_ , Rey knows in her heart that Snoke had lied. 

The bond was never his doing, and his death would do nothing to sever it.

* * *

The _Falcon’s_ engine gives a pleasant hum as Rey stares out into hyperspace. She nestles herself into the co-pilot’s chair. It will be hours before they reach their destination… Which is where, exactly? There is a fuzziness in her mind as she tries to remember… something. Her hand drops unconsciously to her waist, and she fingers the cool metal casing of her lightsaber.

Her _unbroken_ lightsaber.

Then, Rey lurches forward. She spins around, and darts out of the cockpit. She barely gets a few feet before colliding with something solid.

Something which _winces_.

She looks up into the face of Ben Solo, who cannot fully hide his bemusement despite being winded by her. “Rey?”

A dream, then. She shakes her head. Another dream of a life she cannot have, a man she cannot… _should not_ … want.

Ben leans against the bulkhead. This time, he has swapped his black attire for a pale shirt and waistcoat – and _kriff_ , if he doesn’t look every inch his father’s son. The resemblance would unnerve her, but after a few seconds, she notices some subtle differences. His smile is less cocksure, more gentle and reserved. He crosses his arms over his chest, rather than the relaxed hands on hips posture Han had favoured during his and Rey’s brief acquaintance.

“Are you all right, sweetheart?” he asks, and the endearment causes her pulse to beat in a rapid staccato. “You seem… distracted?” He reaches for her with an ungloved hand, and tucks a stray hair behind her ear. Rey leans into his touch, greedy for it.

There is a darkening in his gaze, an intensity so reminiscent of Kylo Ren that it gives her pause. Why do her dreams have to taunt and torture her so, she wonders, even as Ben leans closer. Her eyes grow hooded, as she feels the ghost of his breath against her cheek.

In a heartbeat, she is pressed against the bulkhead of the _Falcon_ , caged by muscular arms, yet not trapped. His mouth is on hers, each kiss soft and languid, almost drugging. In this dream-world, they have kissed a thousand times; Rey knows the contours of his mouth as intimately as her own. She threads her fingers through the downy softness of his hair. An inarticulate sound, almost a moan, escapes his throat, and she feels the rumble of it against her lips. 

Ben pulls away, one hand resting on her cheek. He gazes at her as though she is something precious. The cadence of his breath has grown unsteady, and his cheeks flush with life.

She caresses his lips, now plump and ripe from their kissing. She feels that smouldering in her belly once more, and sees its twin reflected in his wide, dark eyes as she traces the constellation of moles on his face.

Half-formed thoughts drift into her mind, in his deep and smoky tones. _Beautiful. Soft. What did I do to deserve her?_

She leads him to the cabin she has claimed for her own. The bed is a nest of rumpled sheets and creased clothing - a mixture of hers and his, she notes with a thrill. There is no hesitation, no nervousness as her fingers graze the hem of his shirt, slip the waistcoat from his shoulders. Her lips find purchase on his neck, and she kisses his pulse point. Emboldened by his sigh, by the heat of his hands on her waist, she flicks her tongue over the spot. His answering moan is the greatest gift and sweetest torture. 

She wants… more. More skin, more kisses, more soft sighs.

And then, Ben’s shirt is on the floor as she runs hungry eyes and fingers over his naked torso. She has seen him – no, _Kylo Ren_ – like this once before. Memories of that moment cause her to flush to the roots of her hair. But this man – Ben – is different. Gone is the scar that bisects his face down to his neck and chest. Gone is the lightsaber burn to his left shoulder. She had branded him, marked him as hers.

Rey shakes her head, and meets Ben’s eyes. Where had that thought come from? 

Her dream self hesitates; she hovers a palm over his shoulder. Close enough to feel the radiating heat, but not touching him. Yet.

If Ben senses her trepidation, it does not read on his face. He lifts a hand to her chin, and tips it upwards to meet his mouth in a kiss so achingly tender, she half-fears she will cry from the joy of it all. 

His murmured “I love you” against her lips is the last thing she remembers before the dream fades…

* * *

Ten days have passed since Crait; ten more nights of maddening dreams. She wakes each morning flushed, with a dampness to her flesh that is more than just sweat. Each dream is it’s own delicious torture. She will burn up in her imaginings before long, or descend into madness with her want. 

She dreams of them entwined together in bed.

She dreams of his lips mapping the shape of her body and worshipping every inch of skin.

She dreams that he loves her; of a life where the Resistance and the First Order have never existed; where they travel the galaxy together and live amongst greenery and flowers.

And every morning, Rey wakes on his father’s ship (the father she watched him stab in cold-blood), has to look his mother in the eye and try to hide her shameful _wanting_ ; eats breakfast with the man whose life he almost took in front of her in that snow-covered forest on Starkiller Base,, and the captured rebel pilot he had tortured for the map to Luke Skywalker.

Kylo Ren haunts her by day.

And every night, Ben Solo invades her dreams.

* * *

It takes ten days, but the Resistance _finally_ lands. The air in the _Falcon_ , even with its constant recycling, has grown stale. Rey had feared that Chewie was on the verge of a breakdown on more than one occasion. She too had been experiencing mounting ire - friendly company and conversation were a novelty to her, but she found herself mourning the still and quiet. Like Chewie, she had taken to spending hours in the engine room, simply to escape the din and chatter. 

The decision wasn’t _entirely_ selfish - the _Falcon_ was a capricious vessel at the best of times - and there was always some wiring to be replaced, environmental controls to be adjusted or any of a myriad of other flaws to be fixed. Working their way through what seemed like a never-ending list of repairs, Rey wondered if the ship was held together by the sheer power of the Force alone. However, after a few days dedicated labours, the engines purr like a sleeping loth-kitten.

Rey’s first sight of Ajan Kloss is at sunset. The sky is painted in red and purple hues as the sun descends; the two moons are just visible against this canvas. Rey breathes in the air, humid and heavy with the scents of jungle flowers. Birds twitter and insects buzz and chirp in the gloaming. It is similar to Takodana, but yet so different. Despite the circumstances of their arrival, she thinks that she might enjoy it here. 

The first few hours are busy: tents to be erected to serve as a mess, medbay, command centre and accomodations for the remaining members of the Resistance. Dameron darts from group to group, a constant helping hand, and chattering brightly. Rey cannot decide if he is trying to bolster their spirits, or his own.

Looking at the despondent faces, trying too hard to smile, to be strong, Rey understands. She has seen the interiors of the First Order vessels, witnessed their firepower and durability firsthand. How can an army of scarcely two dozen, sleeping in under canvas and without a fleet, ever hope to topple the Order?

* * *

By the next sunset, everyone is gathered in a clearing, solemn and still. General Leia’s voice, raspy with age and fatigue, continues to read out so many names. Rey recognises few of them, but is certain that she knew the faces, seeing them burned into her mind. How many of those were on the transports blown up as she wasted vital minutes trying to pull Ben Solo back to the light, then engaged in that battle of wills over the damned lightsaber which started it all?

She feels that familiar prickle at the front of her mind, the eerie sound like the death whine of an engine. Everything else is drowned out, and she senses his presence.

Then, she sees him.

Maker, he looks _ghastly_. He is seated, chin resting on a gloved fist. The purple circles under his eyes are such a stark contrast to the pallor of his face that it looks almost bruised. Those eyes are red-rimmed and his hair is a riotous mess. His cheeks are drawn, almost hollow. Grief hangs over him, and with his pained expression, he might almost fit in with the small crowd of mourners. But he does not belong with them – not when he is the architect of their tears. 

Why then does Rey still feel the urge to comfort him?

Kylo lifts his head, and those eyes fill with pleading, with sadness, before they harden. His spine stiffens and he sits straighter, gloved fists clenched so tight she imagines the knuckles beneath to be deathly white.

Rey draws the borrowed shawl closer around her. Her hand reaches for Chewbacca, who is standing to her right. She takes comfort when he wraps an arm around her shoulder, all while Kylo Ren glares at her with darkness and something else, something dangerously close to longing, in his gaze.

Instead, she turns her attention back to General Leia. One hand remains on the cane to steady her. A few feet away, Rey sees the dark-haired medic – Harter Kalonia, she remembers – standing to attention, ready to dive forwards and catch the General if her frame betrays the merest quiver of exhaustion. 

Kylo cannot see her surroundings, any more than she can see his. But even he must be able to ascertain that this is a solemn occasion.

 _Do the First Order mourn their dead?_ She wonders. She cannot imagine so – if their Stormtroopers aren’t even worth naming, she cannot picture Generals or even the Supreme Leader taking time to weep for them. Yet, the First Order have experienced casualties too, soldiers cut down in battle, especially after the _Supremacy_. 

But this is war; she only has the capacity to grieve for her own side’s dead.

She will ask Finn later if the First Order mourn; if not on this scale, then if the Stormtroopers quietly toast their fallen brothers and sisters away from the cruel eyes of the officers and generals. Her eyes scan the crowd, searching for her friend.

He stands in the row in front, one arm wrapped around Rose, who is quietly sobbing into his shoulder. Her little hands have fisted into his jacket. Finn rests his head upon her crown, and rubs soothing circles against her back. Rose had lost a sister, Rey remembers. A sister who wore the other half of the necklace Rose clutches every moment when her hands are unoccupied.

Rey’s eyes catch a movement, and they stray back to Kylo Ren. He had risen from his perch – his stolen throne, she assumes - and now seemed to be waiting for her to speak, impatience etched onto his features. He steps forward, towards her. Instinctively, she drops her arm from Chewie’s grasp and leans back on her left leg, one hand gripping her staff. 

He gives her an almost imperceptible nod. _Good_ , he seems to say. His lips move into that arrogant smirk she remembered from their first meeting, when she had called him a creature in a mask.

If only he had kept that mask on…

Why had he removed it, before trying to push into her mind? She wonders about this constantly. She was not the only member of the Resistance to have fallen afoul of Kylo Ren’s interrogation techniques. He had captured Poe Dameron, tortured him, left him - but, according to the pilot, Ren had kept his mask on the whole time. 

And now, Kylo was staring at her from across the galaxy. This bond might always be open, a permanent thread connecting them. Maker, how would she handle never closing it, never knowing in which moment the Force might decide to bridge their minds? She had already seen him shirtless once – and now, she feels a flush prickling over her skin – what other private moments could they find themselves sharing if there was no way to control this connection?

Amidst her contemplations, he had continued to approach her until he stood behind her. Close enough to feel the heat of his body. She jerks forward a few steps, and Chewie offers her a quizzical look.

Rey twists her head enough to meet Kylo Ren’s eyes. 

His lips part – and the Force mercifully snatches him away.

* * *

The next time Rey sees him, she is sitting in the mess. It is dinnertime, and she finds herself seated between Rose and Poe Dameron. BB-8 is rolling around underfoot, occasionally interjecting into Poe’s story about an incident on a mission gone awry, involving a loth-cat and an ambassador’s silk nightdress. The group can’t decide if it is true or not – either would be possible in Dameron’s case. The man had, after all, held the First Order fleet at bay for several minutes with mere words. But they decide that BB-8 is far more reliable narrator than the pilot, and concede to the truth of the tale.

Rey tucks into a watery meat stew with more gusto and less suspicion than her comrades. Her body will not readily forget the pangs of an empty belly, even if she knows the General will not let her people starve. She is mopping up the dregs with a slice of real, albeit stale, bread, when she senses the opening of their connection. Gravy stains her chin, and her fingers drip with the remains of her meal. 

There is an urge to grab some cloth, hurriedly wipe her face and hands. She bites down on that. But, as a concession, she licks the last of the juices from her fingers and lips, and ignores the groan of derision from her unwanted visitor. Rey shoots him a dead stare, before turning her attention to Poe.

“I heard that some of the pilots were planning a game of sabacc later tonight,” she says in what she hopes passes for a calm and measured tone.

“Oh no,” Finn replies, on the cusp of a laugh, “You do not want to get involved in that! They’re vicious! I honestly thought Wexley was going to punch him after that last game! I swear if General Leia wasn’t ten feet away, he woulda taken a swing at you, Poe!”

Poe’s answer was an easy grin and a wink. “Ah, Snap doesn’t take to losing well. No hard feelings.” He lifts his mug in a half-toast, and takes a swig.

“I notice you omitted to mention the accusations of ‘cards up your sleeve,” Kaydel Ko Connix says. A chuckle reverberates through their group, Rey included. 

Rey’s eyes flicker towards the skulking figure of Kylo Ren. He looks almost… belligerent, and she hopes her smile is just vicious enough to wound him. 

She turns to Rose, whose attention is focussed on the stringy piece of meat she is poking with her fork. “Do you play?” Rey asks her.

Rose blinks, and shakes her head. “I’ve never been a gambler.” Her mouth makes a moue of distaste, and a knowing look passes between her and Finn. “A couple of the engineers played, but it’s mostly a pilot’s game.” She inclines her head at Dameron. “My sister…” her voice grows tight. “Paige, she used to play. I would come to the games, but just to sit with her and watch.”

Paige Tico – just one of an endless list of dead whose names the General had read out yesterday. Rey reached over and placed her hand over Rose’s, giving her a reassuring squeeze. At the same time, Finn wrapped an arm around the woman’s shoulder.

“I’ve never even seen a sabacc game, not properly,” Rey tells her. “Maybe we could sit together, and you could talk me through the rules?” When Rose nods, she shifts her attention to Finn. “Are you in?”

Her friend grinned brightly. “You bet! Kaydel, interested?”

“I’m not a fan of the gambling part,” she says, twisting a stray hair back into one of her buns. “But if there’s booze, I might make an appearance.” She leans forward, and says in a loud whisper, “I’ve heard Wexley is looking for a rematch, and there’s even a bet on whether tonight he will actually punch Dameron if he loses to him again.”

Laughter echoes at their table, and Poe gives a good-natured shrug. “How many credits you got on me winning the table, Connix?” He wiggles his eyebrows, a gesture which draws a collective groan from their little group.

“Oh no, I’m leaving the gambling to you flyboys!”

Rey becomes aware of Kylo moving closer, and closer, until he is towering over her. Her hand slips from Rose’s grasp and she rests it on the blaster at her hip. The one Han Solo gave her… She thumbs the cool metal. It would not be the first time she has raised this particular weapon against him.

She feels the heat of his body from behind. A gloved hand falls to her shoulder, and she barely stifles a gasp.

He leans down, and his breath ghosts over the shell of her ear. “You can’t ignore me forever, Rey,” he murmurs. Not that anyone but her would have heard even if he had bellowed it. But she suppresses the small shudder that passes through her. “You won’t always be surrounded by your… friends when this connection opens.” His voice grows taut. “Eventually, you’ll be alone. And I. Will. Have. My. Say.” Rey feels the burning intensity of his gaze – but she will not grant him the satisfaction of looking. 

She feels the graze of leather against the exposed flesh of her arm. Her neck snaps round to face him, rale at him for touching her.

But there is only the stained grey fabric of the mess tent behind her.

* * *

Rey huffs and tugs the sheet tighter around herself. She had left the sabacc game early, once the focus had moved from gambling to alcohol. 

Hedonism would never be in her nature. But she could not begrudge the Resistance fighters their own indulgences. Gambling over a few credits or mess duties was safer than the daily gamble each of them took by standing against the First Order. 

Finn had been persuaded to learn the game, with Poe as his instructor. Well, persuaded was perhaps the wrong word. He put up some mock resistance, made a show of having his arm twisted. But the reluctance of his words was not reflected in his gaze. Rey spotted him staring longingly at the cards and credits changing hands, and it was only after reassurance that she would keep Rose company, that Finn eagerly relented. Poe had shuffled along the bench to accommodate him, and Rey and Rose found some amusement in the commander’s wild gesticulations before their conversations turned to other topics. 

It was… easy - startlingly so - to make idle chatter with Rose. Despite the short weeks Rey had now spent with the Resistance, the isolation of Jakku still clung to her. She prefered to sit back and listen to others than dominate the conversation. But with this woman, words flowed easily.

Rose’s eyes were positively aglow as Rey described her time as a scavenger. “Imperial Star Destroyers? Wow, you must have seen some amazing tech?”

Rey shrugged. “I never really had time to think about it – for me, it was about survival. What I could trade for the most portions.” She shook her head. “Honestly, I still can’t fathom that I won’t have to do that anymore.”

“Jakku sounds terrible,” Rose had said, and reached over to squeeze Rey’s hand. “Life on Hays Minor was never _easy_ , especially after the First Order invaded, but your life sounds so much harder. At least I had my sister, and my parents,” she grew quiet for a moment, and fingered the pendant at her neck, “But you had no-one, and _look_ at you. You survived. You became a kriffing _Jedi_. That takes an incredibly strong person to overcome all that, and achieve what you have.”

_Or a foolish one, too stubborn to let go of dreams and shadows._

It took a moment for Rey to realise that Rose was speaking again. “…build rechargeable vehicles from junk parts. Some of the engineers aren’t keen – but then, they aren’t used to doing without.” She flashed Rey what might pass for a smile, even though the tang of grief still lingered around her. “We could use someone with your knowledge of tech.. If you wanted to, that is.” Her gaze dropped for a second. “Although who knows what amazing Jedi missions the General might have you for you?”

Their last Jedi – without a weapon, without a master, and too bundled up with hurt and rage to truly qualify as a Jedi in the first instance.

“Not much, given I no longer even have a working lightsaber.”

_A frantic tug-of-war. The strength of the Force pushing them back as they battled for dominance. His legacy, her weapon. A blinding flash. A crystal split in two._

Rose nodded sagely. “I’m all right at fixing things – maybe we could try to fix it together?” 

_Together_. 

Rey realised she had not answered a moment later. Her companion was busying herself sipping her tea, avoiding meeting her eyes. 

“I mean, I don’t know much about their construction… but two pairs of eyes, right?”

She smiles. “Rose, I would love any and all help you could give me. And if you need any help with your project – well, once a scavenger, always a scavenger?”

Then Kaydel had appeared, clutching a green bottle, and with a wicked grin on her lips. “Liberated from the General’s personal stores,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper.

“You stole from the General?” Rose squeaked.

Kaydel shook her head, though her smile remained. “A gift. Leia takes care of her people.” She twisted the lid, and lifted the bottle to her lips for a quick swig. “Besides, she keeps the _really_ good Correllian stuff under lock and key. I’d sooner kiss a sarlacc than risk her wrath if I even tried!”

The bottle was passed to Rose, who gulped a mouthful of the liquid with a barely concealed grimace, before handing it to Rey. The drink smelled of smoke, and Rey could not purge the scent of ash and burning drapes in Snoke’s throne room from her mind.

Rey had tasted alcohol only once before – a few swigs from the bottle of an older female scavenger back at Niima outpost. She remembered the arid taste, flushed cheeks and unsteadiness, an explosion of light and colour. She remembered the pounding of her skull the next morning, and retching bile. And that was before she had to consider the recent revelation of her parentage and the arbiter of her miserable childhood. 

She shook her head. “I think I’ll give it a miss.”

Luckily, Finn chose that moment to extricate himself from the game. His grin hid the fact that he had lost – badly – and would be enjoying several other people’s mess duties in addition to his own for the next few days. He snaked his arms around Rose, and planted a sloppy kiss to her forehead. 

The room grew noisier, and a few of the pilots and gunners approached Kaydel. The bottle was passed around to whoops and coughs and occasional toasts of “To the Resistance!”

Rey gave a mumbled excuse about feeling tired, and stepped out of the mess tent.

In the darkness, the air was heavy with the scent of blossoms. Strange, chirping insects filled the air with their song. A gentle breeze struck up, ruffling the loose hair at her temple. On Jakku, she could never have imagined such a world to exist. She crossed the base, and headed towards her tent. 

She had grown used to the stillness and solitude of her AT-AT. Quiet was rare on the base, and private space even scarcer. She had been assigned a bunk alongside Rose and Kaydel. They were kind people, good people, but she was too accustomed to those solitary years on Jakku. It would take some adaptation, being around so many others, the constant sound of people and conversation, but it was overall preferable to her previous existence; and besides, there was plenty of jungle away from the base where she could retreat if she desired some time alone with her own thoughts.

And if those thoughts and dreams drifted back to Ben Solo… well, who was to know?

She tried to distract herself by watering the seedlings Kaydel had gathered on their first night here, and planted in some broken crockery liberated from the _Falcon’s_ galley. “So we always have something beautiful, and alive,” Kaydel had said. Rey thought back to the spinel-barrows and the single nightblossom she had left behind in Jakku. Little enough could survive in the Goazon Badlands, let alone thrive, but those plants had somehow managed. She had somehow managed.

Rey wonders what their seedlings will look once they bloom, what rainbow of hues and colours they will flower, what scents will fill their little tent.

She wonders if she will even live long enough to see them grow.

She spends twenty minutes, turning over the broken lightsaber in her hand. The mechanics are strangely simplistic – it would be easy enough to repair, with only the most minor of modifications. The problem, she surmises for the dozenth time, is the crystal.

That cracked crystal.

From her perusal of the Jedi texts, Rey knows this is a kyber crystal. A powerful artefact, strong with the Force. And rare – rarer than a nightbloomer in the desert. Where the kriff is she supposed to find another one?

She finds her fingers drifting to the scar on her right bicep. _Like two hands reaching for one another…_ She shivers, and it has nothing to do with the temperature. 

Finn had been the first to notice the scar, to ask her about it. _A war wound from training with the great Luke Skywalker?_ he had teased.

It should not have been so easy to lie. She has lied so much recently, even if only by omission. She lies to General Leia every moment she fails to mention what transpired on Ahch-To, what happened in Snoke’s throne room on the _Supremacy_ , and whose face she sees in every shadow and every crowd… She lies to Finn and Rose and the others when she keeps the milieu of Luke’s teaching - that the Jedi were flawed and deserving of extinction - to herself. Worse, she asks Chewie, wonderful, gentle Chewie with his open arms and aching heart - to lie on her behalf; to conceal the truth from Leia, whom he loves as dearly as a sister.

Rey thinks back to her conversation with Rose in the mess hall. A Jedi, that was what Rose had called her. The _last of the Jedi,_ she hears whispered sometimes, sees them pointing at her in an admiration which makes her feel uncomfortable at best. She has even heard herself referred to as the Chosen One. She snorts. Young, starving, lonely Rey would have leapt towards that title and destiny with enthusiasm. She knows better now. 

Once again, she touches the scar. Her skin tingles with the memory of the vibro-blade piercing it, of the exhilaration and terror of that battle in the throne room. Physical pain is no stranger to her - years of clambouring in the wreckage of Star Destroyers, of beatings and battles have hardened her to the sensation. But something contorts and writhes within her as she looks at the marking. A permanent reminder of the deceit and secrecy she practices every day.

The Resistance want a Jedi; a spiritual heir to that fresh-faced and eager young man from the Rebellion newscasts of old. A mythic hero for a new generation, a new enemy.

She _wants_ to fight, to defend, to protect. But not as some mythologized and venerated hero. Not as the next Luke Skywalker. Just as Rey. A Rey with the Force, and a lightsaber, and a determination in her soul. But sometimes, she finds it impossible to reconcile that with the exhausted young woman who gazes back at her in the mirror. 

On the Falcon, Leia had squeezed her hand in the aftermath of Luke’s death, and promised her that the Resistance had everything it needed to succeed. Rey admires the optimism, the fire that has kept two rebellions burning despite insurmountable odds.

She only wishes it was easier to play her own part. That she could stand tall and defiant, be the hero they need. But how can she, when her nights are filled with longing for the man at the head of the very regime she is fighting?

Eventually, Rey drags her weary body to bed. A pity her mind has not caught up, as a thousand thoughts continue to swirl. Thus, she finds herself tangled in the bedsheets, and unable to sleep.

Maybe the alcohol _would_ have helped, she muses. The very thought fills her with nausea. The pilots, gunners, mechanics and others may indulge, even gain temporary pleasure in the act. But all she sees now is that scrawny little girl, her arm held painfully in Unkar Plutt’s grasp, crying out for the parents who abandoned her.

She is not her parents – how can she be, when she can barely recall their faces? But what if she shares their addictions, if the same poison flows in her blood? She had sworn off alcohol after her past experience. The resolve is even greater now. 

There is a sharp pain at her temple. She massages the muscle there, and wonders if the headache is a harbinger of something else… But between two unpleasant (albeit brief) visits from Kylo Ren, and yet _another_ night tortured by dreams of Ben Solo, she feels the weariness down to her marrow.

Eyelids droop, but her thoughts remain tumultuous.

Some of the pilots had used a phrase earlier – third time lucky. That wasn’t the case on Jakku – the first scavenge was usually the best haul. The second might uncover some hidden delights missed by the first. But the third scavenge was rarely of much value. The scraps, the dregs, all that had been left behind. The third scavenger might be fed for a day - the lucky first one could earn enough portions to last a week or more. Rey had seldom been the lucky one.

The prickle in her mind stirs, and she knows her solitude is soon to be invaded. Rey rolls onto her stomach, and buries her groan into the pillow.

The air crackles around her. She is reminded of the harsh, spitting vents of a scarlet lightsaber. The Force itself seems to whine. Then, that familiar presence appears. 

_Can you see my surroundings? I can’t see yours. Just you._

What does he see now? A floating Rey, sprawled in mid-air, levitating with the Force? A traitorous part of her mind almost wants to ask him. He had treated their connections with curiosity, applying a scholar’s thoughts only seconds after she had taken a blaster to him. Maybe one day, if ever they can reclaim their previous cordiality, she might even ask him.

But now, she wants to pretend to be asleep. What words can she have for Kylo Ren? 

There is a shift on the mattress, and she feels it dip with his weight. She stiffens, waiting for… what? His rebuttal, his rage, his tears? Another unwelcome touch so she could slap his hand away? 

She had imagined, and dreaded, this meeting for days now. Ever since she had looked into those haunted, needy eyes on Crait as she slammed down on their bond. No, before that – as she had left him prone and unconscious on the wreckage of _Supremacy_. 

He would unleash the full brunt of his temper upon her.

He would break down in tears, fall to his knees in supplication, and beg for her forgiveness, her touch…

He would grab her and kiss her with unbridle passion.

He would attempt to kill her.

In precisely zero of these visions, would Kylo Ren simply sit on her bed and ignore her.

She angles her head just enough to gaze at him with one eye.

He leans forward, his back to her. His shoulders are slumped, and his hair is ruffled from his attentions. He turns his head towards her. The pallor of his skin seems to glisten in the gloom. He raises a gloved hand, and she sees the glass, smells the burning of the alcohol as he gulps at it.

When Rey feels him shift, she closes her eyes once more. 

She should be afraid to be here, so vulnerable with him. She should be angry, spitting venomous barbs at him. If she still had a lightsaber, she could end him now, bringing down the whole sorry sabbac house that is the First Order.

Even through closed eyes, she can feel the intensity of his gaze upon her. A flush creeps over her skin, and she struggles to steady the shuddering breaths in her chest. But he does not touch her, does not even attempt to talk to her. He can’t possibly believe her to be sleeping?

He sighs. Kylo Ren _sighs,_ and the sound is so foreign she thinks she must have imagined it. 

“Rey…” His whisper is filled with pure, unadulterated longing. It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. Her name on his lips should be poison. 

His hatred would be easier for her to bear. She should not long for the touch of his hands - hands with the power to slaughter innocents and burn star systems to the ground. He is her _enemy,_ and she is his. 

So deep in her thoughts, she doesn’t notice that he has shifted once more. His long legs have come up to join hers upon that small bed, and he lays his head upon her pillow. So close, close enough to smell the scent of his hair (not the chemical, utilitarian aroma she expects) and the sweat on his brow. Close enough to feel each erratic breath. She glimpses him through half-lidded eyes. His own gaze is resolutely fixed on her - no, his own - ceiling, his gloved hands folded in his lap. Heat radiates from him, and she notices his right ear poking out from behind dark locks. From shell to tip, it flushes scarlet. 

_Just like Ben’s…_

The buzzing stops, and the additional weight disappears from her bed. Rey sits up, and rubs her face. She glides a hand over the threadbare sheets. Though he has gone, his warmth still lingers on her bedding.

When sleep eventually claims her, she dreams of Ben Solo once more.

* * *

Kylo gazes at the woman huddled on his bed. The sight of her is so dangerously close to his dreams, that he almost believes this to be another illusion. 

Or possibly an alcohol-induced hallucination, he muses. He has never had much tolerance for the stuff - on rare occasions he imbibed, it always seemed to make the voices in his mind louder. Now, it is the emptiness and solitude which deafens him. 

Even seated on his bed, the room shifts and tilts slightly. Pleasant warmth suffuses his limbs, and he almost feels… content? Inebriated or not, Rey is _here_. Not some facsimile, not the passive, docile Empress of his dreams who gazes at him with glassy eyes and none of the fire and spark he admires in the scavenger girl; but _Rey_ , with her sneer and the defiant jut of her chin.

Or it would be, if she weren’t asleep.

Her face is away from him, buried in his pillow. No, her own pillow - not the soft, decadent fabrics and silk sheets he permits as his sole luxury, but probably some folded up cloak and filthy, itchy blanket dragged out of a cupboard in that kriffing ship. Only silks should touch her skin… 

Kylo sighs her name. 

The alcohol makes him bold - or foolish. The thought enters his mind to lie down beside her; and then his back is against the mattress, and his head is on the pillow, close enough to turn and kiss her… but he does not yield to the desire. He folds his gloved hands over his abdomen; hands which _ache_ to touch her… He can feel the rising blush on his face at the thought.

She shifts, barely perceptible, and his limbs stiffen. If he turns his gaze towards her, sees fury and disgust in her eyes… No, he cannot bear it. _Let me have the illusion a little longer…_

Kylo forgets that he is not the master of the Force; it has a will of its own, and he can no more control it than the direction of sandstorm or the ebb and flow of the tide. As the thought crosses his mind, the room shifts, and her warmth disappears from his side.

The sound which rips forth from him is positively animalistic. He rubs his face, _hard,_ and turns to his side. For several minutes, he simply stares at the empty space, at the creases in the sheets, where she had lain. His eyes drift upwards, and he notices a stray hair, lighter in colour and longer than his own, left upon the pillow. 

The gloves are ripped off, and he runs his hands over the bedsheets, which still hold the ghost of her warmth. 

“Well kid,” comes a familiar voice. “I guess this whole Supreme Leader thing didn’t work out how you expected.”

Kylo leaps to his feet unsteadily, the alcohol robbing him of his usual grace, and stares into the sardonic , blue-tinted face of Luke Skywalker.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey seeks out a good night's sleep; Finn seeks absolution (and flowers); and Kylo grapples with his deceased (but persistently annoying) uncle.

Kylo stares, open-mouthed, whilst the apparition of his kriffing uncle continues to smirk at him.

This Luke appears older and more haggard than the one Kylo humiliated himself fighting in the blood red salt flats of Crait. The beard and hair are longer, unkempt and riddled with grey, the lines on his face deeper. Gone are the black robes, replaced by worn and threadbare off-white. His cloak is a rough-hewn material – the same material as the blanket Rey had been wrapped in that night she had reached for him across a galaxy at war. The night he almost believed he had a future with her by his side...

That thought is like a dousing of ice water, and the fuzziness in his mind clears. Kylo reaches out with the Force, and pulls his lightsaber across the room. Its weight is a comfort in his hand. He tries to hide the trembling of his traitorous body.

Rationally, he knows Skywalker can do him no harm. Intimidate and irritate him, perhaps, but Force ghosts are supposed to be intangible. Nevertheless, Kylo remembers the paralysing terror of awaking to find himself bathed in the green lustre of a familiar lightsaber, his Master and uncle poised to strike him down whilst he slept.

But that is the past. Gone is Ben Solo, the weak, pathetic boy who nearly perished in his sleep. Now, Kylo ignites his saber, feeling the thrum of his cracked kyber crystal reverberate through his whole body. He snarls - a loth-cat poised and ready to strike.

Skywalker’s Force Ghost merely rolls his eyes – the look one gives to an errant student rather than a galactic warlord. “You can put down the lightsaber, Ben,” he says, his voice even and measured. “Unless stabbing at the air will take out some of that aggression?”

“You. Are. Dead.” Kylo says tightly. He can feel the heat of the blade near his face, but he will not lower his weapon.

“Yes, I am. How very astute of you to notice.” Skywalker’s apparition seems unperturbed, and Kylo can almost hear the amusement in the timbre of his uncle’s voice. “I warned you, Ben Solo,” he says, inching closer; instinctively, Kylo takes a step back. Embarrassment at recoiling like frightened child only adds fuel to his rage. “If you struck me down, I’d always be with you. Welcome to your future, kid.”

Kylo snaps. He lunges forward, knuckles gripping the hilt of his lightsaber so tightly it is almost painful. The scarlet blade bays for blood, even if its target is naught but an illusion.

He is fast but Skywalker is faster - his ghostly hand grips the blade and he gives Kylo a withering look.

Breath leaves Kylo in harsh pants, teeth still barred, heart still racing.

“Now then, Ben,” Skywalker says, “It’s time for us to talk. Or rather, me to talk and you to try listening for once.”

Something breaks within Kylo - a stabbing pain, and he loosens his grip on the saber. It darkens, and drops to the floor with a heavy clatter. He follows it, sinking to his knees like he had done in that abandoned Resistance base on Crait; this time, there are no illusion dice or disapproving looks from Rey. He feels… broken. It takes all his strength to stifle the anguished scream threatening to rip forth from his throat. He concentrates on his breathing, until shuddering pants quiet to soft exhales.

(That he learned his technique as part of meditation exercises from Skywalker himself is a fact Kylo currently elects to ignore.)

“Now, as I was saying… It seems to me that this whole ‘overthrow Snoke and become Supreme Leader’ gig hasn’t exactly gone how you thought it would. You wanted to be your own Master, but the way I see it, you’re still trapped in a role.”

“And you’re nothing but a ghost, old man,” Kylo retorts petulantly.

Skywalker shrugs. “So you keep reminding me. I know what you’re searching for, Ben. Your master promised you strength, but you feel hollow. You’ve powered yourself on anger and vengeance for so long, that you don’t know _how_ to function without them.”

“I am the _Supreme Leader_ ; I have all the power that I need.” Even to his own ears, the words sound hollow.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Personally, I don’t think you’ve wanted power for a while. Not since Crait… And as a result of your actions there, what you _really_ want is now out of your reach.” A look crosses Skywalker’s face which Kylo might almost mistake for _sympathy._ “She doesn’t want a galactic dictator, kid.”

“Why should I care what your last little apprentice wanted?” He can feel flush creeping up his face -the tips of his ears are positively burning. Force, the idea of Skywalker knowing of his dreams about Rey… That all of his dreams of her have maintained their chaste flavour is a pitiful consolation. Kylo feels inadequate enough without that being broadcast to his spectral uncle.

“If you didn’t care about that, you wouldn’t be trying to crawl into bed with her.” Kriff, so Skywalker _had_ seen that particular interaction. His interruption of their brief hand touch had been the catalyst for Rey’s arrival on the _Supremacy,_ and the moments after where it had all gone so badly wrong…

“I’ll admit that this isn’t the conversation I planned to have with you. I had a whole speech about anger and forgiveness, but I’m not going to turn down a better opportunity to talk you round. Last time we met, you swore to destroy her. Looks to me like you were on the verge of snuggling her. I looked at an enemy like that once too, you know. Almost ended up married to her, if memory serves.” He looks almost wistful for a moment.

Kylo blinks. “What…” Then, he shakes his head angrily. “Kriff off, old man.”

“All right, I can see you’re not in the most… receptive of moods. We can finish this later.”

“There will be no later!”

Skywalker shakes his head. “I’m not going away, kid. I warned you this would happen. I will _always_ be with you,” he repeats. “Just like your father.”

With those words, he vanishes. Kylo finds himself once again kneeling on the floor, his whole world sent adrift. A maelstrom ages within him, a physical pain at those last words. When he closes his eyes, he sees a bridge bathed in the light of a dying star, a blood-red saber in his hand, and the wide, hurt-filled eyes of Han Solo. Kylo can almost feel the ghost of his father’s final caress upon his cheek.

No amount of breathing exercises will calm him.

The sob which rips forth is positively animalistic.

* * *

The former Stormtrooper known as FN-2187, more latterly known as Finn, grunts as he is awoken from sleep by a Resistance mechanic stumbling loudly into their shared tent.

First Order accommodations were different. Spartan, sterile capsule pods for the Stormtroopers. No room for personal belongings beyond their uniforms and their weapons. Stark grey sheets, cold pillows and harsh blue lights. No bonds with your bunkmates, no one to confide in or confess to. No late night interruptions of bunkmates in their cups (and, in one rather mortifying instance, in their passions). Only the steady mechanical _thrum_ of whichever vessel they were based on. No sounds of the jungle moon and its myriad of birds and insects which seem determined to chirp and tweet and hoot even into the night.

No leisure time either – no quasi-acrimonious games of sabaac, no sharing outrageous stories over a gulps of whiskey, no friendships, and _definitely_ no kisses from feisty Haysian mechanics…

Finn shakes his head – Poe had warned that the alcohol might make him maudlin.

Was it less than a month ago he had tried to run from this motley crew?

A snore – from Wexley, most likely – interrupts his reverie. The barracks might be quieter and more sedate on the First Order; but at least here, Finn knows he can sleep with a clear and honest conscience.

But there remains a prickle of disquiet within him. He thinks of those left behind, the hundreds of thousands of nameless Stormtroopers still entrenched in the First Order.

Whether through trauma or reconditioning, the Order tried to stamp out their humanity. An army without feeling, every soldier an instrument of destruction not burdened by such trivialities as justice, fairness or compassion. Without humanity, without a soul, there is no line - the massacre at Tuanul proved as much.

Thoughts of that horrific night of fire and blood haunt Finn when there are no other distractions. Screams of the villagers echo in his dreams; and when he wakes, clammy and panting, and rubs his face, he half-expects to see blood upon his hands.

Technically, he is still a soldier – but this time, for a cause of his choosing. Now, he fights for those he loves. Behind the mask, he never lost his humanity – perhaps he was not alone in that regard? But with a threadbare and under-resourced Resistance on a distant moon, what help is he to his brothers and sisters still in bondage?

Sleep does not come again for him that night.

* * *

Dawn is barely beginning to break over the horizon when Rey rises from another fitful night’s sleep.

In the faint light, she scrubs her face and brushes her hair, tying it into a loose knot with a piece of loose wire scavenged from Rose’s beside. She glances at herself in the cracked mirror they had scavenged from the _Falcon_ : she is unusually pale, with dark circles around her eyes that advertise her fatigue. There is a pounding sensation in her head, a pain behind her eyes, and she spends a few moments massaging her brow until it abates.

She reaches into her pack for a ration bar to quieten the rumbling of her stomach. Kaydel had teased her for keeping a small pile of rations in their tent - “The mess is just across the base!” - but old habits never die. Perhaps one day, when the scraping sands of Jakku are but a distant memory, Rey might believe in the permanence of plenitude.

Rose and Kaydel had returned to their tent late, giggling and shushing each other. Now, they are curled under their bedsheets, snoring softly. Rey casts a fond smile over their sleeping forms, before grabbing her staff and heading out onto the main base.

The air around her is still - the birds have not yet stirred from their nests. Occasional snores and grunts emanate from a few of the tents. A lone zymod scampers across her path, hissing at her, before it disappears into the jungle.

(Rey briefly wonders exactly where the meat in last night’s stew had come from… but she has eaten far worse in her life, and is too practical to be precious about such things.)

She debates whether to head towards the _Falcon,_ and see if Chewie needs any assistance (or even some company) when a voice pierces her reverie. “Rey?”

She spins around, hands clutching her staff in a defensive position - only to find herself pointing it at a bemused Leia Organa. The weapon falls from her hands, and she ducks her head.

“Sorry, General,” she murmurs, and is puzzled when Leia’s response is a chuckle.

“Leia,” the general says with a smile, even as her eyes seem to regard Rey with uncomfortable scrutiny. “Permit me to be ill-mannered for a moment - but you look dreadful. And I know it wasn’t the alcohol - I saw you leaving the mess tent much earlier than anyone else.” Her lips move into a frown. “Are you sleeping all right?”

There is something unashamedly maternal in the question, and Rey feels an ache deep in her heart. Never mind that much of her disquietude is the doing of Leia’s actual child, whose rejection of a love she had never known stung worse than a gnaw-jaw’s bite. Rey wonders for a moment if Leia is Force-sensitive - then she recalls the story of how the general alone survived the explosion on the bridge of the _Raddus_ (another of Kylo Ren’s attempts to “kill the past”, she thinks bitterly), before realising the general is awaiting her answer.

“Not really,” she says with a shrug.

“Go back to bed then,” Leia replies, with an undercurrent of firmness that Rey thinks might be an order rather than a kind suggestion. “Believe me, I’m not expecting much activity on base for the next few hours. Honestly, you look like you need the extra rest.”

Rey shakes her head. She tries to find the words to articulate how unnatural it feels to sleep the morning away, when every hour lost might mean a smaller haul, fewer portions, more hunger. But the change in Leia’s expression suggests she at least understands Rey has her reasons.

“All right then,” the General says. “But by the looks of you, it’s been at least a few nights since you slept properly, no?” Rey nods, and bites her lip. “Doctor Kalonia is awake, you know.” Her tone is almost conversational. “She’ll probably have some SleepTabs which might help you rest. Remember Rey, no matter how hard you train,” she quirks her head at the staff still lying in the dirt, “If you’re dead on your feet, you won’t be of any use. A lesson my brother was forced to learn on numerous occasions too.”

The image of a younger Luke Skywalker, passing out from long hours training, is enough to draw a wry chuckle from Rey’s lips. “Thank you, Leia.”

* * *

When Rey approaches the tent designated as the Resistance field hospital, the grey flap is already open, and she spots the dark-haired doctor sitting at a desk and sipping her morning caf. The older woman smiles as Rey hesitates at the threshold, and beckons her in.

“Good morning Rey,” Dr Kalonia says brightly, putting down her cup and standing up. She smooths her hand over her brown vest. Her eyes have a soft crinkle around them as she smiles. There is a warmth to her, much like with General Leia. The air in the tent is thick with the odd aroma of bacta spray, a myriad of unfamiliar herbs and freshly brewed caf. A medical droid whirrs quietly in the corner. “Caf?”

Rey takes a seat in the proffered chair, and accepts a cup with a murmured thank you. Dr Kalonia sits down, and leans back. Her eyes seem to scan Rey for a moment, as if trying to assess the young woman’s reason for visiting the med tent.

“Rumour is that there was quite a bit of… carousing among the troops last night. I’m expecting quite the influx of visitors this morning. But you don’t strike me as suffering from a hangover. What brings you here?”

Rey sips the caf for a moment, tries to find the words. _I’m exhausted as every time I try to sleep, I’m having sex dreams about Kylo Ren, who occasionally appears to me via a Force Bond. Oh, and last night he actually tried to crawl into bed with me._

Flashes of last night’s dream - one of her more salacious fantasies, no doubt exacerbated by his recent physical presence, and the lingering scent of him upon her bedsheets - burst behind her eyes. She feels herself redden.

Dr Kalonia can see it too. “Ah,” she says with a nod. “I see. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, my dear. If you’re here to ask about contraception-”

“That’s not-” Rey splutters, choking on her caf, and the doctor has to apply a few firm back slaps until her coughing fit subsides. Her throat burns, and she is almost certain her face is now blood-red. “That’s not why I-” She bites down on the urge to leave, to hide away for a few hours, or worse… to use one of those mind tricks to make Dr Kalonia forget the whole conversation.

“Oh kriff, I’m sorry!” The older woman lays a hand upon Rey’s shoulder, which she instinctively jerks away from. “I shouldn’t have presumed. You seemed… flustered and distracted, and when a young woman - or man, for that matter - comes to see me with that look, it’s almost always about contraception. I didn’t mean to embarrass you, dear.”

It takes Rey a few minutes before she can compose herself enough to look Dr Kalonia in the eyes. To her credit, the doctor has busied herself by lining up her datapad with the corner of the desk, and wiping away the mug stains with her shirt-cuff. Her smile is gone, but the look in her eyes is gentle and understanding.

“Perhaps we ought to start the consultation again?” Dr Kalonia says, and Rey nods as the colour fades from her cheeks. “What brings you to see me this morning?”

“This probably sounds asinine, in comparison to everything else,” Rey begins, “But I’ve been having trouble sleeping, and when I do sleep...” She shrugs, unsure how to continue.

“Ah.” Dr Kalonia leans forward. Her fingers seem to twitch, as though she wants to place her hand over Rey’s but doesn’t want to startle the touch-starved girl. “You’ve been having nightmares?”

“Something like that…”

The doctor nods. “Well, you wouldn’t be the only one. Our group has suffered some horrific collective trauma. I shudder to think what state we’ll all be in once the dust settles. Assuming…” she tailed off, but Rey understands the words she refuses to say.

_Assuming we survive._

“Anyway, I can give you some sedative pills for the next few nights. Might be enough to break the cycle and get you into a better sleep pattern. I don’t recommend them long-term though – some people can find them a little addictive; however, two or three night’s worth won’t do you any harm. As for the nightmares – the majority who take these generally report a dreamless sleep. But Rey,” she says, a seriousness in her dark eyes, “Whatever is troubling you… it might be better to talk about it. Keeping it buried inside gives power to the trauma.”

“I don’t think there’s anyone who’d listen,” Rey says. She still hasn’t found the mettle to bring up the events on the _Supremacy_ with Chewie, much less anyone else. Explaining the nature of her dreams, and this maddening and dangerous Force connection with Kylo Ren is out of the question.

“You know, there’s more to being a medic than bacta, injections and surgery,” the older woman says, folding her arms across her chest. “The mind is no less important an organ than the heart or lungs or any other. If you want to, Rey, you can talk to me in confidence.” “Really?” Rey’s eyes widen.

“Of course,” Dr Kalonia says. “I don’t judge, and besides, my oath is one of strict confidentiality. Well,” she says with a shrug, “Unless you tell me something that would put us in danger; that, I’m afraid I’ve had to break confidence over and report to the higher-ups. But under every other circumstance, what passes between us, stays between us.”

The initial relief and elation Rey felt about potentially being able to vocalise her tumultuous feelings evaporates. A member of the Resistance having a psychic bond with the Supreme Leader probably counted as “endangering the fleet”.

She bites her lip. “I’m not… ready… yet, to talk about it…” _And I probably never will be,_ she finishes to herself.

“All right,” the doctor says, though Rey cannot fully decipher the expression in her eyes. “But one day, when you’re ready…” she gesticulates to the empty med tent. “I’m always ready to listen. Don’t leave it too long though… Trauma is like a wound - the longer you let it fester, the harder it is to remove the poison and heal.”

* * *

The dampness of his pillow when he awakens is _definitely_ sweat, Kylo tells himself, even as his eyes feel raw and tear tracks stain his pale cheeks. His head is aching - hangover or emotional distress, or perhaps some combination of the two? Even the dim light of his quarters seems to burn his eyes.

In the night, he has curled into himself like a child, knees practically to his chest. He stretches, limbs unfurling, and desperately gropes for the empty space where Rey had lain hours earlier. They remain cold and untouched.

Kylo rubs a hand roughly over his face. He feels… tired, down to his very marrow. His fingertips brush over the ridges of his healing scar. Her marking on his skin. The last place Han Solo laid his hand before plummeting to his death on that shadowy bridge.

His fist connects with the wall; he welcomes the pain, for it distracts him from the roiling agony in his heart.

These feelings remind him of lying there as Starkiller Base crumbled and disintegrated around him. He remembers the sear of his family lightsaber – damn it, his birthright - upon his face. As the earth cracked beneath him, he longed for death, anything to cease the twin aches in his soul.

Killing Han Solo was supposed to be his moment, the act that silenced the torment, when the Dark embraced him like a lover.

Instead, he had felt ravaged. Every heartbeat was a raging scream in his ears. Even in the moments before Hux found him, wounded, robes soaked and half-delirious with the blood loss and the melting snow, Kylo would have welcomed the embrace of death. Not haunted by his deeds, or the Skywalker legacy, or anything else. Just pleasant, quiet oblivion.

The Force it seemed, whichever side was grappling for him, was not yet ready for Ben Solo. For Kylo Ren.

And then there was _her_ , the girl who had bested him and scarred him. In his delirium he had imagined that, on branding him with the saber, she had also burned away the last molecules of his father's final touch upon his cheek. The thought sent a sickness through him. He remembers watching her leave, supporting the half-conscious body of the traitor FN-2187.

He remembers feeling that he would never see her again, and being hit with a fresh pang of regret.

Now, healed and in his quarters, and perhaps the most powerful man in the galaxy, Kylo feels equally as ruined. He needs to end this… infatuation with a scavenger.

( _Rey_ , his heart reminds him).

It would be easier if this was just some physical attraction; some base, sordid need that could be sated by taking himself in hand, or… He bites down on the next thought. But his traitorous, childish body will not allow him even that satisfaction.

He reaches out for a distraction - a bottle, a lightsaber, anything... and a datapad flies into his outstretched hand.

He grimaces as he sits up. This must be what a hangover feels like - pounding in his skull, undulating nausea, and shame. He is in no state to take out his conflicted feelings on training droids or consoles or even (and an involuntary shudder reverberated through him at the thought) whichever fool is unlucky enough to cross his path. There are endless files, countless reports needing his approval: finances, permission to redirect resources, daily updates on the ongoing conquest in the Bryx sector.

The errant thought crosses his mind that he perhaps ought to have paid more attention to his mother’s political lessons, back when Ben Solo’s future was an open book of possibilities. A senator; a pilot in the New Republic Fleet; a smuggler; a Jedi Master; or even just a simple scholar, content with his books and his thoughts. Galactic warlord had never figured in anyone’s plans, yet that was the path fate had elected for him.

An insistent beeping from his comm interrupts Kylo’s thoughts, and with a groan, he rises to the morning and whatever matter awaits the Supreme Leader’s attention.

* * *

The little box of SleepTabs feels cool in Rey’s pocket as she settles herself at the foot of a broadleaf tree. Even through her tunic, the bark scratches her back a little. The jungle is awakening around her - swooping, singing birds, strange chirping insectoids, and the occasional rodent-like creature burrowing its head out from a hole, before retreating at the sight of a human woman sitting cross-legged in the clearing.

She closes her eyes, breathes deep the scent of leaves and flora, and tries to centre herself. _Balance,_ she repeats in her mind, _balance._

But balance proves as elusive a beast as dreamless sleep. After half an hour, she huffs and unfolds her legs, rests her head against the tree bark.

Distantly, she hears the sound of the base coming to life. Chattering conversations, the rustle of fabric, a mechanical whirring sound she thinks might be BB-8 skittering around underfoot. The Rey of many months ago would have relished the company; a balm to her aching loneliness.

Now, she feels too weary to deal with human (or any) companionship beyond her own thoughts.

She hears someone – humanoid, at least – stumble and swear profusely. Her eyes crack open, and through a gap in the trees she spots the jacket-clad figure of Finn, BB-8 rolling behind him. In this fist are a few yellow blossoms.

Finn calls her name a moment later with a wave. Rey forces a weak smile and stands, brushing away the dust from her legs.

“Good morning Finn,” Rey says in what she hopes at least approximates a light and carefree tone. She cocks her head towards the flowers in his grasp. “Decorating your tent?”

He shakes his head, and seems to hop awkwardly from one foot to the other. “Don’t laugh,” he says, “But… I wanted to do something nice for Rose.” He ducks his gaze.

 _I’m helping!_ BB-8 beeps. _Although I do not understand why the nightlily was not suitable._

“For the last time, droid,” he says with a mixture of humour and exasperation, “I’m not giving Rose a plant which eats bugs!”

“Please don’t,” Rey interjects, feeling of the tension within her body abate just a little. “I have to bunk with her!”

That draws a chuckle from Finn and BB-8 concedes on that point. “Want to help me?” Finn asks. “We’ve been here almost an hour, and, well…” he inclines his head to small bouquet of flowers. “Not much to show for it. I just want to them to be perfect for her.”

The words slip from Rey's mouth before she can stop them. "Are you in love with her?"

Finn blinks for a moment, before a sheepish grin creeps over his face and he shrugs. "I'm not sure I really know what love is... but I want to make her happy, make her smile, and I think about her constantly. I don't always understand her, or how she thinks, but I want to learn." his smile softens to something beautiful. "Maybe that is love? Or at least the begins of it?" He runs a free hand over his hair. "Probably sounds mad, given I've known her hardly any time at all, but that's how I feel."

No madder than smuggling oneself onto a First Order vessel on the basis of a single conversation by the firelight and a moment of hand holding, she reminds herself.

“Well then,” Rey says. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance after all.”

She smiles as Finn points to different blossoms for her inspection: she doesn't know the names, and a few even BB-8's data bank draws a blank upon. He plucks each stem with tender care - the boy raised to kill, to be the perfect soldier, whose strength lay not in his military prowess but his rejection of the whole thing. He looks positively giddy.

A bite of some unfamiliar emotion snaps at Rey, dampens her happiness for her friend. It takes a moment to recognise that feeling as jealousy. Not towards him, or the object of his affection. But for the simplicity and ease of it all. That there is no galaxy, no war between Rose and Finn. No conflicted hearts, a sweet affection able to nurture and grow without prejudice. Simple, sweet, beautiful. Just an ex-Stormtrooper, freed from bondage, giddy with the simple pleasure of picking flowers for his beloved. 

Then, she shakes her head as if to rattle the thoughts away. She looks at her friend with soft eyes. The man who confronted his fear of the First Order and being dragged back into enslavement (or worse) to rescue her. Who risked his life for a cause. Who deserves all the love and happiness and giddiness in the galaxy. Rey will not let her toxic infatuation with Ben Solo - with Kylo Ren - dampen her delight for her friend one iota.

Rey is coming to realise that the Force is at worst cruel, or at best has a twisted sense of humour, as right on cue she feels that prickle at the forefront of her consciousness. A whispered expletive escapes her as a figure in black appears in the clearing. 

He is so close, so real, she fears that Finn and BB-8 might actually be able to see him.

His lightsaber flashes and crackles as he swings it through the air, although whether he is slicing down an enemy, an innocent, or simply at the air itself, Rey doesn’t know. He grunts as he cuts another arc, before his eyes fall upon her.

Her mind hums with purpose. This snarling, brutal figure is the man the rest of the galaxy sees. The Jedi Killer. The Supreme Leader. Warlord, murderer. This is the image he projects; and despite the vulnerability and potential she had glimpsed beneath, this is who Ben Solo wants to be.

Kylo Ren.

Air leaves his chest in heavy pants; his eyes are ablaze. He allows the saber to fall dark, and parts his lips as if to speak with her.

Instead, Rey fixes him with a glare for just a moment, shakes her head and turns her back to him.

The sounds of the jungle grow louder, and she knows that the Force has mercifully disconnected them once more. There was a finality to their brief interaction; Rey hopes deep down that the Force has gotten the message, and this may be the last time.

“You all right, Rey?” the gentle concerned tone of her friend pulls her back to reality. “You’ve gone pale.”

She clears her throat; exhales the breath she had not realised she had been holding. The first breath of her new life without the spectre of her lost fantasy hovering over her. “I just haven’t been sleeping well,” she says, and pats the pocket containing her pack of SleepTabs. “Won’t be an issue tonight, though.”

Finn’s eyes widen. “Kriff, Rey, you aren’t taking sedatives?” She feels a reverberating panic from him at her slow nod. “Those are…” he searches for the words with a wild gesture, almost dropping his bouquet of lovingly collected flowers.

“Those are…?” she says slowly, feeling a leaden weight fill her stomach.

He sighs. “When the First Order… took… me…” he begins, laying down the flowers and sinking to the ground. “When I was a kid, they used to pump us full of Maker knows what – whether it was part of the conditioning, or whether it was simply easier to take care of hundreds of frightened, screaming kids if they were drugged up to the eyeballs…” His voice wavers. “I don’t remember anything before the Order. I _want_ to – I want to know where I came from, who I was before I was FN-2187. But I think all those drugs were designed to poison our minds, stop us remembering, stop us hoping… And they’re _still_ doing it now – hoovering up orphans, rounding up innocent children to turn into more cannon fodder.”

Finn’s shoulders have begun to tremble, and his cheeks are wet. “There are hundreds of thousands like me – kids who never wanted to be a part of this war, who became pawns for Snoke and now Ren to play their little game of empire. They never chose that life – not like the officers and Generals. And when we blew up Starkiller, when Holdo crashed into the _Supremacy_ , thousands of them must have died.”

Rey joins Finn on the ground, and wraps her arms around his shoulders even as nausea threatens to overwhelm her. Even BB-8 comes closer, nuzzling his head-part against the side of Finn’s chest.

Kidnapped and abused children… Those were the white-armoured figures she had shot at (and even killed, she remembers with rising horror), the causalities of this war. Guilt sucks the air from her lungs, and she too feels the prickle of tears.

Several moments pass without words; Finn’s tremors eventually stop, and he looks at her with the eyes of a lost child. There was no catharsis to his words or tears, but he seems to sense that she understands.

“Phasma,” the name leaves his mouth like venom, “She used to talk about ‘reconditioning’ - she used it as a threat against any Stormtroopers she sensed even the hint of weakness about. I’m starting to wonder…” his voice tails off, and he looks wistful for a moment, “If the reason they had to do that was because I wasn’t the first to defect. Because if the First Order doesn’t have the full control of its men…”

“…Then maybe they aren’t as all powerful as they believe?”

“Exactly. You know,” he says, “Did you ever think, that day at the outpost, that we’d end up here?”

“No - to be honest, I was in a rush to get back to Jakku.” _Not anymore,_ she tells herself. Not when her reason for returning is meaningless.

Finn seems to sense the direction of her thoughts. “But not now?”

She shakes her head. “And you? No more talk of working on a freighter?”

A deep chuckle escapes him. “Nope - I’m staying too. Don’t tell anyone, but I think you and I might have a destiny to fulfil. Especially you - Rey of Jakku, master Jedi.” He winks at her.

She flushes, and diverts her focus to a tiny purple beetle crawling over her boot. “I’m not a master of anything, and I’m probably not even a Jedi – not really – but that won’t stop me doing what I can to help.”

“Me too. Poe and I were talking, the other day,” Finn says. “About the last war, against the Empire. I’ve only ever heard the First Order version of history, and how the Empire fell. How Luke and Leia – the children of Vader himself – brought it down. The Princess and her Jedi brother fulfilling a great destiny. It got me thinking… orphan nobodies like us were never meant to be great heroes in this war.” Even through his melancholia, his eyes sparkle like the most precious jewels. “But what’s to let that stop us?”

Those words are music to the soul of the girl who had dreamt of a destiny, a bloodline, only to grow into a woman who realises she does not need that. Rey nods, spits in her palm and offers it to Finn. “To orphan nobodies saving the galaxy.”

He mimics the gesture, and they shake hands to seal the pact. He then gives a half-laugh and rises to his feet. “Now, let’s get these flowers back to Rose before they die of dehydration.”

* * *

The remainder of the day passed in a blur. Rose’s delight at the flowers had bubbled over into Rey herself, although she and Kaydel quickly made themselves scarce when her kiss of thanks continued for far too long.

Then, there was a brief meeting with General Leia and Poe Dameron regarding assignment of duties. Rey found herself being paired with Rose to try and salvage/repair some of the few ancient X-wings on the base. A base much older and lesser used than the one on Crait, whose equipment was rusted to the point of fossilisation. A daunting task, and perhaps near impossible, but she hasn’t quite lost her scavenger instincts.

Dinner passed in more easy conversation. Although, after chewing on the stringy meat used to make tonight’s stew, Rey is almost certain the jungle will be denuded of its zymod population in a few weeks.

After dinner, Rey, Rose and Kaydel retreat to their tent for what Kaydel announces is a “girl’s night”. Having had little companionship of any gender, the concept intrigues Rey, so she bids Finn, Poe and BB-8 goodnight before heading off arm-in-arm with her bunkmates.

Kaydel’s idea of a “girl’s night” seems to consist of drinking tea, eating bright purple berries she had picked earlier (“Don’t worry, I got Artoo to run them through his databanks to make sure they aren’t poisonous!”) and teasing Rose about her burgeoning romance with Finn.

“I remember the first time someone gave me flowers,” she says, popping another sweet berry into her mouth. Her lips are stained almost blue with its juices, a stark contrast to her pale blonde hair. “This beautiful Nabooian scholar. Eirtaé, her name was – gorgeous red hair, the greenest eyes you’ve ever seen, and a mouth that could-“

“Kriff, Kaydel, do we need every sordid detail of your sex life?” Rose says, only half in jest, as she pours three cups of Galentean tea and passes the chipped mugs to her bunkmates.

Kaydel shrugs. “I’ll remind you of that statement next time you come to me asking for advice, Rose Tico.” She takes a long gulp, and her eyes fall on Rey, currently wrestling a brush through a knot in her hair. “Want some help?”

Rey nods, and remembers that first night on the Falcon after Crait; remembers admiring Leia’s braids, and secretly wishing to learn how to mimic the style. Kaydel has on occasion sported less elaborate, but equally beautiful braids. “Please. Although I was wondering if you could show me how to… braid.”

“Of course!” Kaydel smiles, and gestures to Rey to sit on the ground. She perches herself on Rey’s bed, and begins to gently work the brush through dark hair for a moment, humming pleasantly. Once Rey’s locks are tangle-free, she begins to card her fingers through it, splitting it into three segments.

The sensation is pleasant, soothing. She cannot remember having had this done before – although, she rationalises, someone must have taught her the style she wore for so long; the hair of a little girl clinging desperately to dreams and fantasy. She is not that little girl any more – she is a woman, and she intends to embrace that in every way.

Kaydel continues to work her hands through Rey’s hair, twisting her locks into a braid with surprising efficiency. “So, Rey… I noticed you’ve kept quiet through all the romance talk…”

“There’s no-one,” she says with a little too much haste. Kaydel and Rose shared a smile.

“Really? No-one at the moment…?”

“No-one ever.” She turns to Kaydel, eyes almost beseeching her to drop the subject.

“Uh huh,” Kaydel says, raising an eyebrow. “Is that so?” Rey could feel a flush creeping up her neck under her friend’s too-knowing gaze, and turned her attention to the teacup in her hand, taking a long sip. “Who’s Ben?”

At that name, spilling forth from her friend’s lips, Rey spluttered. Rose had apply several forceful slaps to her back before she could speak again. “What?”

Kaydel looks positively victorious. She leans back on her elbows, and gives Rey a wink. “You talk in your sleep, Rey. I’ve heard that name the last two nights now. ‘ _Ben,’_ ” she imitated a breathy moan. “Come on, I’ve divulged my love life, and we’ve all seen Rose and Finn mooning over each other – by the way, just warn me before you decide to use our tent for sex, I don’t think I could look Finn in the eyes again if I accidentally walked in on that,” she continued, ignoring Rose’s indignant squeal. “But Rey here… you’re a woman of mystery and intrigue. So come on,” she says with a grin, “Who’s Ben?”

A shuddering breath escapes Rey. Rose is the first to notice the stricken look on her friend’s face; and Kaydel’s grin quickly fades. “Oh gods,” she says, going red to the tips of her blonde hair. “Is he… dead?”

Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

It is only half a lie. Ben Solo is dead… Though his body may live, and thrive, and fight, the man whose hand she touched across the galaxy is gone. When he surrendered to the power, to the Dark Side, that part of him was snuffed out for the final time.

Ben Solo lives now only in her dreams.

“Oh, Rey.”

She feels a hand grip hers; she starts, and looks into the soft, caring eyes of Rose. “I knew there was something on your mind… I mean, not that we don’t _constantly_ have the threat of death hanging over us,” she gives a too casual shrug. “But you always seemed so sad… You’ve been mourning him all alone, haven’t you?”

She nods. It is mostly true. Oh, she suspects that the General must weep for her lost boy, and the monster he has become. And she knows of Chewie’s grief – Kylo Ren may have robbed him of Han, his closest friend, but he also remembers the little boy who drew star maps and wanted to pilot the _Millennium Falcon_ more than he ever wanted to be a Jedi, or heir to the Skywalker name.

But Rey had spent too long alone with her feelings. Too many quiet nights in the dessert, no one to share her thoughts with. She wasn’t even sure she knew how.

“It’s…” she says hesitantly. “It’s hard to talk about him… I don’t know how. I’ve never spoken about him to anyone.”

“Hey,” Kaydel says, leaning her head on Rey’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. You don’t have… to talk… about him… But that doesn’t mean you need to close yourself off either. We’re all friends here, and you can tell us anything.”

Rey remembers that moment in the jungle clearing – the way her eyes had met Kylo’s, the resolve she felt in those moments. “He’s been like a ghost, hanging over me… But he is gone, and I think I’ve accepted that now. I don’t want to live in the past anymore.”

The pack of SleepTabs remain in her pocket, pressed against her thigh. After her talk with Finn, and her silent confrontation with Ren she had resolved not to use them. But knowing that she talks in her dreams… Well, perhaps a single night of drugged and dream-free sleep wouldn’t go amiss.

* * *

Every muscle in Kylo’s body aches; but none more so than his heart.

After Rey’s transient appearance, the finality in her eyes, the way the Force had snapped their bond closed… he knows that this was probably the last time it would ever connect them. No words had been exchanged between them. It was not a satisfying ending to their tale but it was an ending nonetheless.

He had been on the verge of ceasing his training session when she had appeared materialised before him. After her disappearance, he had continued for hours – soaked in his own sweat, trembling, and having destroyed more than half of his practice droids before he gave into exhaustion.

Standing under the tepid water of the ‘fresher, he massages tired muscles and tries to feel _free._ No master, no inconvenient Jedi visitor about whom he has conflicted feelings, and more power and agency than he could ever have hoped for. He is the Kriffing _Supreme Leader._

Once he has dried himself and shaved, he slips into more comfortable clothing for sleep. The floor is cold beneath his bare feet as he pads into his sleeping quarters. The room is dark, save for the time flashing on the chrono, and faint starlight through the viewport.

A faint snore reverberates through the room.

His instinct is to grab his lightsaber and cut down the intruder, when his eyes adjust and he sees the sleeping figure huddled in his bed. Her back is to him, and her hair is bound up in a simple braid, but he recognises her and her Force signature.

Kylo groans. So much for a final meeting.

He creeps closer, and she stirs onto her back. Her face is bathed in starlight, dark lashes against her cheeks, a smattering of freckles upon her cheeks, lips parted slightly. He drinks in the sight of her for a moment, because he is weak.

Then, he shuffles to a chair in the corner – hard, unyielding and nowhere near the comfort of his bed. He throws a blanket over himself, and closes his eyes. Eventually, sleep claims him, lulled to dreams by the soporific, soothing sounds of Rey’s snores.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all my readers - your comments and kudos always put a smile on my face! This chapter was a bit of a challenge to produce (as was the upcoming chapter five), and has gone through about six different iterations prior to being ready to post. Lots of talking and lots of angst (with a smattering of plot)... with more to follow.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The First Order makes its latest move in Galactic conquest, but perhaps the Supreme Leader's heart isn't cut out for the finer details of the war... And General Leia reconnects with an old ally or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content warning:** I’ve updated the tags to reflect the content of this chapter. This will ultimately be a story that ends with a redeemed Ben Solo (spoiler alert!) but right now, he is still clinging to his Kylo Ren persona, and all that comes along with it. There is some violence (although not much beyond canon) and references to child abduction in this chapter, so please be aware before you read on...
> 
> Written with the odd muse combination of _War Pigs_ by Black Sabbath, and _Darkness_ by Lord Byron.

Kylo wakes to a stiffness in his neck, and it takes a moment to realise why he has spent the night in his chair. He blinks, and casts his gaze over to his bed.

His _empty_ bed.

He bites down on a feeling of disappointment, and quashes the urge to approach the bed, run his fingers over the sheets in the hope of soaking up anything left of Rey. (Whether he would be more disappointed to find the sheets still warm, having only just missed her presence; or cool to suggest she was long gone, he doesn’t know).

The day begins mechanically - it is easier not to feel. He enters the ‘fresher, scrubbing his skin under the tepid water spray. He shaves carefully and methodically - not using one of the virborazors, or even allowing a droid to assist - but a gorgeous jade handled blade, one the few luxuries he affords himself. (That the blade was part of a set gifted to him and his father by Chewie one Life Day is a fact he elects to ignore), Once he has finished, and splashed his face with cold water, he calls for a servitor droid. Breakfast rations and a large mug of caf are brought to his quarters, and he eats slowly. There is limited enjoyment in the rations, but they provide all the nutrition he requires. The caf is rich and strong, and he feels his mind become more alert with every sip. He opens his datapad - though only eight standard hours have passed since he last checked, there are now nearly 50 new reports or requests requiring the attention and the approval of the Supreme Leader. From updates from his Forces to accounts, to a brief mention of an officer found murdered on Coruscant a few days ago, he feels a pounding in his head at the prospect of having to work his way through each one.

 _I bet my mother doesn’t have to do this every day,_ he grouses.

The thought disconcerts Kylo; it has been a long time since he has been able to think of Leia Organa as anything other than an enemy general. 

_No_ , he corrects himself; that isn’t strictly true. 

He remembers piloting his TIE silencer into battle, his finger hovering over the button to launch a missile and obilaterate Resistance high command on the Raddus. Killing Han Solo had not crystallised his resolve - but removing this last tangible reminder of his past, of Ben Solo, might change that. Complete his initiation into the Dark. Make him whole, quiet the roiling doubt and loneliness gutting him like a wound.

Then, he had sensed her. Or perhaps it was she who had sensed him. Was he picking up on her emotions, her grief, or was she sending those feelings to him, to instill doubt his mind and heart? He remembered the caress of his lips against his brow after a nightmare, the warmth of her embrace, the gentle look in her eyes. Those emotions were like a vibroblade to his heart, twisting painfully. That whisper of her voice in his mind… _Ben…_

_Mother…_

Memories assault him of his earliest days as Snoke’s apprentice. Of that cave on Dagobah, pulsing and hungry with the Dark. He had cut through the vision of Skywalker easily enough. But, confronted with his mother and father… he had hesitated, unable to attack even a facsimile of his parents then.

Even the act of ending Han Solo’s life on the bridge at Ilum had not solidified his place in the Dark Side. It had done the very opposite.

No warm, welcoming embrace from the Dark… Only more doubt, more taunts of weakness from his _Master_ , and a crippling feeling down to his marrow he fears might be guilt… 

_It cleaved your soul to the bone._

_A cur’s weakness, properly manipulated, can be a sharp tool…_

Snoke had been talking about Hux with those words, although Kylo has come to suspect that he too had been one of Snoke’s “rabid curs”. Not any more - Snoke was dead, by Kylo’s own hand, and he was free to guide his own destiny.

Except, he had not anticipated this to involve being in the thrall of endless paperworks and reports. What was it that Skywalker had said? _You wanted to be your own Master, but the way I see it, you’re still trapped in a role._

Those words had stung because they were true.

There are times, in the dark of night, in between nightmares of torture and sickeningly chaste dreams of Rey, that he almost _mourns_ the voice in his head. Of a constant presence, a distraction from his own tumultuous thoughts. Snoke may have manipulated him, groomed him, tortured him… but there was a strange comfort too, in a way he cannot articulate. Though he does not miss the violence, he _misses_ Snoke, and that sickens him.

His datapad begins to beep again - in the course of his thoughts, another dozen reports and memos have appeared. Kylo huffs a sigh, tosses and the pad aside.

* * *

It is early on Ajan Kloss when Leia is awoken by the appearance of Lieutenant Connix in her chambers. The dawn sunlight dances upon the walls of the cave, and there is a songbird merrily tweeting nearby. 

It’s a good thing Leia has always been a morning person.

“General Organa, I’m sorry to disturb your rest,” Connix begins, but Leia merely waves a hand at her.

“Connix, I helped lead a rebellion on less than four hours sleep a night,” she says, her voice roughened from sleep. “If it’s important enough for me to know, then you wake me up regardless of the hour.” Her muscles protest as she stretches, and rubs a weary hand over her eyes. 

The Lieutenant nods. “Understood. The _Falcon_ received a comm a few minutes ago from the planet Bespin. The code is one from the last Rebellion - we’ve triple checked to make sure-”

Leia chuckles mirthlessly. “About damn time. Please let the former General Calrissan know that I will be with him shortly.” As Connix turns to depart, Leia adds, “And Kaydel?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Have some tea brewing by the time I arrive.”

Kaydel Ko Connix smiles. “As you wish, General.”

Every new sunrise is a victory, Leia tells herself as she rises from her bed. Her knees feel stiff, and her back aches, but she is alive. How many times in the past did she fear not seeing the next morning? She may grumble about the slowness age has caused her - but it is better than the alternative.

And right now, she has a war to fight.

* * *

Dressed for the day, C3PO in tow, and a fresh mug of Gatalentan tea in hand, Leia boards the _Falcon._ She can already hear the guffaws of Chewbacca’s laughter from the cockpit, though the voice on the other end of the comm-link remains crackly and indistinct.

“I must say,” C3PO interjects, “It will be delightful to hear from General Calrissian again. Although it might have been preferable for him to get in contact sooner. On Crait, for example.”

“Not now, Threepeeio,” Leia mutters. The droid makes what she has come to recognise as his whine of annoyance but he remains mercifully silent as they approach the cockpit.

A familiar blue-tinged face, crackly and occasionally indistinct, grins at her from the holocomm as she settles herself in the pilot’s chair, and acknowledges Chewie’s growl of greeting with a nod.

“Lando Calrissian,” she says.

“Leia! Good to see you again, Princess,” Lando replies. His face is older, more lined than she remembers, and his hair and mustache are sprinkled liberally with grey. His garb is still as gaudy as ever, accessorised with his trademark blue cloak. He wears a familiar smile, but there is a weariness to it; she watches as it rapidly sinks into a frown. “There aren’t any words… but I was sorry about Han and Luke, and-” His voice cuts off, but the unsaid name still reverberates in the air.

_Ben._

He clears his throat. “They were like brothers to me… And I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you.”

“If you’re referring to Crait,” Leia begins, her voice even and steady, “I doubt whatever flashy little spaceship you’re currently flying would have made the difference against the entire military might of the First Order.”

 _ <We had the _ **_Falcon_ ** _for that! > _ comes Chewie’s voice, and he caresses a paw lovingly along the dust-covered console. 

Lando gives a chuckle. “Always did say she was the best ship in the Galaxy. But that isn’t necessarily what I mean, Princess.” He sighs. “I know I’ve been distant for the last decade or so - a lot has happened, and I know now that I ought to have been standing by your side, or at least at your back, for most of it. Will you accept an old friend’s apology, and a promise that things will be different from now on?”

A moment passes in silence. Leia sips her tea in contemplation, staring out the transparisteel window of the cockpit, watching sunlight cast little motes of dust into something strangely beautiful and ethereal. _How can I blame you, when my own brother, and my husband, didn’t stand beside me when my son fell to the dark?,_ she wants to tell him, but fears how bitter she might sound. 

Lando had been a man who made choices. Faced with the wrath of Vader, he chose to betray Han and protect his people. Yet, he had thrown himself into the Rebellion thereafter, and their victory at Endor was as much his doing as Han’s, Luke’s, Gial Ackbar’s, and even her own. 

And now, when the Resistance looked to all and sundry to be on its knees, about to buckle and break, he was back to offer his assistance. The fearful, defeatist part of her mind wondered if Lando Calrissan simply had an affection for lost causes. 

“It would be an honour to serve by your side again, General Calrissan.”

There is a brief crackle on the comm-link before Lando responds. “Then I guess we’re off to overthrow the government then!” He offers her a conspiratorial wink. “I’ve fought one war with you, Leia. Didn’t quite expect to spend my dottage gearing up for another, but here we are. Oh,” Lando adds almost as an afterthought., “An old friend reached out to me a few days ago - someone else eager to help.”

“An old friend?” She quirks her eyebrow. “I didn’t think we had many of those left.” There is an undercurrent of bitterness to her tone. Luke, Han, Amilyn Holdo, Gial Ackbar, Mon Mothma,all gone. They fought and won a war, but they were not rewarded with long, peaceful lives. Just more battles, more bloodshed, more death. Now, she has only Chewie, Lando and Harter Kalonia left, with too many ghosts in the shadows.

“You have friends, Leia. I understand why… after Crait…” he trails off in a manner so uncharacteristically unlike the Lando she knows. He clears his throat. “But that’s the past, and we’re not going to bring down another dictatorship by wallowing. Just make sure your pilots don’t shoot down any Personal Luxury Yachts when they enter atmo.”

“Personal Luxury Yachts?” Leia asks, bemused. “Care to elaborate, General Calrissian?”

He guffaws. “And spoil the surprise? I wouldn’t dream of it, Princess. Now, back to business… Scuttlebutt is that much of your fleet was damaged or destroyed last time you ran across the First Order. Now, it’s not much, but I’ve managed to procure you six X-wings. T-85 models - brand new, and at a cutdown price now that the New Republic Defence fleet is done. Although you might want to think about painting over the “ _Republic Navy_ ” on the hull once you get ‘em back to base. How many pilots do you have?”

She counts mentally. “Just six. Not including Chewie, of course,” she adds at the Wookie’s indignant growl.

A low whistle escapes Lando. “Kriff, I thought those rumours about your numbers were just lies and propaganda. Six… Well, if you can get them to Coronet City the day after tomorrow, they’ll be available for pick up.”

“Coronet City…” she says slowly, feeling a familiar ache in her heart. “You know, if we weren’t in the middle of a war for the very freedom of the galaxy, I’d have to ask… Did you acquire these X-wings through… legal… means?”

“Now Leia, I’m still a legitimate businessman,” he says on a laugh, arms folded across his chest as he leans back in his chair. “And anyway, whatever happened to the saying about war and strange bedfellows?”

She turns to Chewie, who merely shrugs. “Fine - as long as you can assure me there was no bloodshed, I don’t want to know anymore. Now, when can I expect this… old friend? And more importantly, how do they know where to find us? I’m guessing the fact you’ve used the secure link on the _Falcon_ means you currently have no idea where our current base is?”

“Nope,” comes his voice on a crackle of static. “But who needs a Star Map when you’ve got the Force?”

 _Oh._ That old friend… Leia hums non-committedly. “Well then, General Calrissan,” she says with more formality than is necessary, “Welcome to the Galactic Resistance.”

* * *

Kylo stands on the bridge of the _Finalizer_ , gazing out the viewport into space, his back to the officers busily working on the ship’s comms array. Their low chatter had grown silent upon his entering. Aside from a few whispers, the silence remained. 

He hears footsteps - light, speedy, and senses the roiling ire of General Hux before he announces his presence. “Supreme Leader?”

“General Hux,” Kylo replies; his voice sounds strange without the modulator in his now destroyed helmet. Despite the many layers of clothing he wears, there is a discomforting nudity of being without the mask. Through a lifetime, he has learned to neutralize his expression, but he knows his emotions are always on display in his eyes.

“I wondered if you had yet had the chance to read this morning’s report on the _Steadfast’s_ campaign in the Bryx sector?” Hux’s voice, normally so thin and reedy, has a softer lilt today, like nectar; and this immediately raises Kylo’s suspicion.

He turns slowly to face the General; he sees the tension in Hux’s face and posture, feels the barely concealed loathing wash over him like a wave. “Not in its entirety,” Kylo says slowly. “To which specific part of said report would you be alluding to?”

“Allegiant-General Pryde’s request for additional ground troops,” Hux says. “The… locals on Kijimi are a little more… hostile, than had been anticipated. Probably just the spice runners trying to preserve their trade routes, no doubt.” His tone has the vaguest undercurrent of condescension, like he _knows_ Kylo hasn’t even glanced at the report in the report in question. That Hux’s suspicions are true only rankles him further.

“Gangs who trade in spice often do come with surprising firepower,” Kylo concedes. Of course, the son of Han Solo would have an education in the less savoury side of the galaxy, no matter how refined and influential his mother. _Kriff_ , there he goes think about them _again_. He shakes his head, half hoping the act will cause such musings to rattle out of his mind.

“In this case, they are causing considerable grief to our forces. Of course, if we still had Starkiller…” Hux trails off, his gaze almost wistful, before his eyes snap back to the Supreme Leader. “However, Pryde feels that the planet has many… resources that could be of use to the First Order, and is not keen on an aerial bombardment campaign. He does not have the troops to hold the planet at the moment… But if we could spare say a thousand Stromtroopers, that would be sufficient to take down the spice runners and their poxy army.”

There is an eagerness in Hux’s eyes, and he almost seems to be _bouncing_ on his heels. Kylo senses the train of his thoughts. “You want to loan the _Steadfast_ a proportion of the _Finalizer’s_ forces to assist?”

Hux nods. “With your approval, Supreme Leader. I would also request permission to personally oversee my troops in the campaign.”

Kylo tries to hide the hesitation in his expression, by turning away from Hux and facing the viewport once more.

Armitage Hux - brilliant military strategist and technologist, but not known for his love of ground battles. Obilertating planets and systems with the touch of a button on his precious (and now defunct) super weapon, firing turbolasers and ion cannons at fleeing Resistance ships - that was Hux’s battle style. Kylo doubted he had ever taken a life with a blaster or vibroblade or in any sort of one-on-one combat. Doubted that Hux had ever looked into the eyes of his victim as their life faded, heard the cries and gasps and death rattles up close. 

_A father’s look of betrayal, of heartbreak…_

He swallows the bile rising in his throat. 

Hux continues to stare at him earnestly, and Kylo tries to regain his train of thought. Stormtroopers… additional troops to the _Steadfast…_ Battle on Kijimi…

A cough from behind them both interrupts Kylo’s deliberations. Both he and Hux turn to the young communications officer who has approached, her right hand raised in salute. “Supreme Leader,” she says as she drops her hand. “I apologise for the interruption, but an Oubliette-class transport has just hailed, and is requesting an audience with yourself.”

The corners of Kylo’s lips upturned slightly. _The Night Buzzard._ He gives the officer a nod. “Grant the Knights of Ren permission to board, and have them escorted to my offices.” She salutes once more, then turns and marches back to her post, announcing his orders in a calm, monotonous voice.

Kylo then diverts his attention back to Hux, who is presently failing to mask his rising curiosity and impatience.. “General Hux,” he says slowly. “Contact the _Steadfast._ Let them know that the _Finalizer_ will rendezvous at their location tomorrow morning.”

“Supreme Leader?” he says, a look of growing bewilderment upon his face. 

“If a thousand extra troops can hold the planet, then eight thousand more might encourage a faster surrender. Besides,” Kylo says, his voice dropping, “I have not had the pleasure of battle for some time.” He waves his hand dismissively, before walking towards the exit, leaving Hux staring and open-mouthed like a gooberfish.

* * *

They formed a perfect partnership, the scavenger and the engineer. Rose picking over the old speeders and X-wings, relics of a war more than three decades won, fixing what most others in her position might deem beyond repair, and Rey picking over the remnants. Not everything was fixable, and not everything was salvageable, but as a pair they managed better than most. They would hold each component, turning it over in their hands and gazing upon it with critical eyes. Rose, with her technician’s mind, sees possibilities where others see only trash.

“Did you see the look on Poe’s face when Leia told him about the new X-wings?” Rose says as she stretches out on the grass after a morning’s labour, “I thought his eyes were going to bulge out of his head! If I hear the words T-85 from him one more time…” She mimics a strangling yesterday, and Rey is soon breathless with laughter. "Even BeeBee was starting to get annoyed, and that droid is the most excitable, chirper astromech I've ever met!"

The two women share a canteen of water, and Rey joins Rose to lie in the grass, drinking in the scents and sounds of the jungles. She watches a small, multicoloured insectoid crawl up a stalk of grass, before revealing secret wings and flying away.

She feels… light, free. Despite Finn’s reservations about the SleepTabs, she had enjoyed a long and dreamless rest, free of Supreme Leaders and Star Map sketching smuggler’s sons. There is a delicious warmth in her limbs as the sun beats down upon her. Working with Rose this morning, finding purpose and a use for her old skills, sharing laughter and camaraderie - it all feels the perfect antidote to her struggles of recent weeks. 

The breeze carries her laughter like a song. Despite the incessant threat of the First Order hanging over them, Rey thinks for the first time in her life, she might know what it is to be _happy_.

* * *

Hux wrinkles his nose at the six figures in black stalking the hallways of the _Finalizer,_ en route to the officers of the Supreme Leader. 

He has little love for the Knights of Ren - he considers then base creatures, like ferality given humanoid form. Their weapons - old and brutal - are still caked with the dried blood and clumps of fur and skin of their latest victims. Hux feels his stomach turn a little at the stench. Such a primitive method of killing. He himself preferred the clean, bloodless infernos of laserfire - or even (and he wrinkles his nose at the thought) Ren’s little laser sword.

Beasts like that have no place on his _Finalizer._ They certainly would not be permitted if _he_ were Supreme Leader instead of Ren.

Panic flutters briefly in Hux’s chest - but he remembers that Ren is not here to eavesdrop on his thoughts. Though his Knights are rumoured to have a degree of Force sensitivity, he does not plan on testing their limits of their perception. He merely gulps deep breaths until they pass, and take their foul, earthy stench with them.

* * *

The sun has yet to break over the horizon of Kijimi City when the First Order descends; fifteen thousand Stormtroopers in their white plastoid armour, blasters raised and ready to fire before the spice runners and their little guerrilla army are aware of their presence.

Amongst the sea of white, from the Supreme Leader’s own shuttle, descend seven hulking figures - the Knights of Ren and their master. Black is their garb and dark is their souls. Their boots crunch the snow underneath. 

The air itself thrums with the sounds of battle. 

Kylo breathes deep of the frigid air, so unlike the still and recycled air on a Star Destroyed. He feels the cool caress of falling snowflakes upon his cheeks. He refuses to allow his mind to drift back to another skirmish in the snow - what he needs is focus, not the doubt and recrimination such thoughts would inevitably bring upon him.

Instead, he allows a stillness to descend upon him, soft as a lover’s caress. The tranquility of battle, the melody of blaster shots and clashing weapons, the song of death.

These were the moments free of doubt. With his six knights at his back, he ignites the blood-red blade of his lightsaber, and lunges forward into the fray. The Force pulses through him, and the air grows still. He lets instinct control every move and every breath, guided by the whispers of the Force. 

Their enemy is weak, disorganised but vicious. Even a wounded loth cat would fight to the death to defend its den.

The air fills with blue flashes - but he has raised a gloved hand to halt the blaster fire before he has even spotted it. The bolt hangs in the air. With a too casual flick of his wrist, it rebounds on his foe. He senses rather than sees the look of shock on his assailant's face, all bulging eyes, open mouth and trembling. It is almost comical. The blaster fire has pierced his chest, and he gasps deep, agonizing breaths. 

Kylo steps forward, dragging his lightsaber with deliberate purpose in the snow, hearing its crackle. He holds his free hand aloft, and freezes the man with the Force. Closer he steps, close enough to see the beads of sweat trickling on his assailant’s neck; close enough to hear the quickening of his pulse, the choking gasps from his blood-stained mouth.

The Supreme Leader is not cruel in battle. The Supreme Leader is merciful. Kylo closes the last distance between then, and plunges his blade into the man’s chest. Without even a final rattling breath, he drops to the ground, dead.

All around, the battle continues. He watches a Stroomtrooper fall, struck by blaster fire from one of the snow-covered rooftops. Sniper fire - practically unsportsmanlike. Kylo grins cruelly, and draws on the oscillating song of Darkness and shadow in his heart - with scarcely any concentration, he crumbles the stone foundations of the building, and hears the screams of another fallen enemy.

Patches of the snow are dark - blood, he thinks, of a dozen species. Even as he continues to advance, cutting violent red arcs with his saber and ricocheting more blaster fire back on the enemy, he watches the Knights of Ren amidst the scuffle.

He watches Vircul, his heavy surcoat of reptilian leather swinging in the snow, as he fells three enemies in a single strike of his vibroblade, and feels the echoes of the Dark side as it reverbrates through the Knight’s body. 

He watches Ushar slowly approach a cowering Sullustan with wide, terrified eyes. Kylo can almost hear the pleading in the creature’s voice, can taste Ushar’s delight in the torment and torture before he cleaves his enemy’s head off.

Lights fill the scorched sky as another dozen shuttles arrive, with them hundreds more Stormtroopers to join the fray.

Kylo smiles as the hearts of his enemy begin to collectively sink.

It will not take them long to surrender.

* * *

The surrender comes less than an hour later, when Ap’lek, Trudgen and Cardo drag the gang leaders from their den in the Thieves Quarter into the main square. Those few remaining fighters, wearied and bloodied, drop their weapons and fall to their knees in the dark and melted snow. Wisps of smoke rise over the horizon, blocking out the pale sunlight like fog.

Kylo senses a familiar smugness a moment before he hears the crushing of boots as Hux and Pryde approach him, bundled in heavy furs and wearing twin looks of satisfaction on their clean faces. No dirt, no blood, not even the merest hint of perspiration. It seems that they had elected to enjoy a warmer and more comfortable view of the battle for Kijimi, Kylo muses.

Pryde is the first to drop to his knees, albeit briefly. “A most well-won victory for the Order, Supreme Leader,” he says with a sinister delight in his voice. 

Beneath the brim of his fur-lined command cap, Hux’s smile does not quite meet his eyes. Kylo hears the words _This was supposed to be_ ** _my_** _victory,_ slip from the General’s mind. 

“Yes, Allegiant-General,” Kylo says, turning his attention away from Hux. “A commander must of course set an example to his troops.”

“Yes, indeed,” Hux interjects. “Now that Kijimi has fallen, I suspect we shall encounter significantly less… resistance from the remainder of the sector.”

Kylo opens his mouth to respond when he feels something strike him - not a physical blow, but a snap in the Force, loud and painful as the crackle of a whip. He stumbles, and has to steady himself against a wall. Ignoring the bewildered look on his General’s faces, his eyes frantically scan the crowd for the source.

He hears her cries before he sees her - a woman in simple grey robes, clutching two small and squirming children in her arms. She is screaming, wailing, as an officer and two Stormtroopers round on her. There are no weapons in her hands; the only thing she has to shield her children with is her body.

One of the troopers strikes her across the face with the handle of their blaster. She crumples to the ground, bloodied and groaning, and the smallest child, a little girl with her black hair in a messy braid, clings to her fallen body.

The older one, the boy, struggles and kicks as the second Stormtrooper grabs him by the arm and drags him none-too-gently. He is no more than ten, but the rage in his eyes and the curses from his lips are those of a man grown.

“Quiet now!” comes the shrill voice of the officer. She reaches forward, and slaps a black gloved hand against his face. The boy merely spits at her feet in response.

“Stop!”

A voice boomed through the air, and it was only when all eyes turned to Kylo that he realised the voice was his own.

The square grows still; a hundred eyes staring at him. He feels a pressure behind his eyes, and watches as his vision grows hazy and two figures appear before him.

_He sees a lanky, black-haired boy clinging to his father’s jacket. “I don’t want to go, Dad,” he says on a sniffle, before angrily rubbing at his traitorous eyes as they fill with tears. “I want to stay with you and Mom and Uncle Chewie. Please…”_

_“Son,” Han Solo says in a pained voice as he tries to extricate himself from his son’s frantic grasp. “We’ve talked about it already. Your Mom and I love you, and we know that you’re very powerful – more powerful than you can control. Your Uncle can help you, teach you… And we’ll still comm you all the time – hey, once you’re older and fully trained, maybe you could join Chewie and me on a few jobs? Remember the butterflies, all those years ago? You hadn’t even properly manifested your Force abilities, and you saved us. Imagine what you could do with proper training, as a Jedi Knight?”_

_“I don’t want to be a Jedi,” the boy says, without belligerence, “I want to be a pilot, like you.”_

_Han ruffles his hair. “Ben, you deserve a far better life than mine. You have an amazing destiny, and Luke will help you fulfil it…” Han’s eyes grow moist, and he clears his throat. “This isn’t goodbye, okay kid?” He presses his son close, and Ben feels the trickle of his father’s tears on his neck._

The vision fades, and Kylo finds his feet propelling him forwards, towards the stricken woman and her struggling children. Even the snowflakes have frozen mid-descent.

The trooper holding the kicking boy loosens his grip marginally in his distraction as the Supreme Leader approaches, and it is all the boy needs. He wriggles free and dives towards the trooper holding his sobbing and frightened sister.

The officer clears her throat as Kylo approaches. “Supreme Leader?”

When he speaks, his voice is low and menacing, and he sees both her and the Stromtroopers visibly recoil. “What are you doing?”

“New… new recruits for the Stromtrooper programme,” she says with a tremble in her voice. “The woman-” she inclines her head towards the semi-conscious woman lying in the snow. “-Was resisting-”

“She was protecting her children,” Kylo says, “As all mothers ought to.” His heart stings at the words, and he can almost hear a familiar whisper of _Ben_ reaching into his mind. 

Awareness comes upon him slowly. The Force wails and keens with the grief and fear of a thousand parents as their babes are ripped from their arms by Stormtroopers and officers; he feels the rising terror of scores of howling, confused children dragged through blood-stained snow towards the transports.

That the Stormtrooper ranks were filled with now-grown abducted and enslaved children was something Kylo had known since his earliest days in the First Order. Clones for the Empire, children for the Order. It was one thing to know a fact; it was another to see it made manifest, to _feel_ it in the Force the way he could now.

All around him, the air throbs with the pain of those around him. Once, he had drank deeply of every agony he had afflicted, used it to feed the shadow within, to strengthen him. Now, the pain tastes like ashes in his mouth.

Kylo returns his focus to the two children - their mother is beginning to stir and sit up. She wraps her arms around them feebly, as though all strength has left her body. She looks up at him with wide, frightened eyes that brim with tears. 

“What’s the cause of all this commotion?” Hux says loudly, appearing at Kylo’s side with Pryde lurking at his back like a shadow. He reaches a gloved hand out towards the children, before stopping dead.

Kylo holds the general’s arm suspended with the Force, and exhales a shuddering breath. “This may be how the Order bolstered it’s ranks under Snoke,” Kylo says slowly. “But _I_ am not Supreme Leader Snoke.” As Hux’s lips begin to move, Kylo clenches his fist and wills a pressure around the General’s throat; watches as his face turns from the scarlet of rage to puce as he struggles, before dropping Hux inelegantly to the ground.

There is murder in the General’s eyes as he massages his neck, but at least he has the sense not to speak.

“Leave this woman and her children be,” Kylo commands the now pale officer and the accompanying Stormtroopers. “Leave all of them be - not one single child is to leave Kijimi. This… recruitment for the Stormtrooper programme… it ends now.”

Suddenly, something collides with his knee. He grasps for his saber, only to look down and see the little girl has disentangled herself from her mother’s arms, and is gripping his calf muscle for dear life. There is no fear in her pale brown eyes; she is _smiling_ at him.

“Thank you,” she says in a soft, lilting voice, before her mother rapidly yanks her back and tries to stumble through a half-apology, half-thank you in her concussed state.

Kylo swallows, and gives the child a nod. Then, he turns with a sweep of his dark cloak, and stalks his way back towards the shuttle, ignoring the bewildered and indignant looks of the two Generals left behind in the snow.

* * *

In the quiet of the night, Kylo paces in his chambers. The _Finalizer_ hums as it moves through hyperspace, everything cast in a haze of blue light. 

He feels...heavy, in away he cannot articulate. Thoughts, memories, emotions, all bubble and simmer within him, unbalancing and agitating him. He can almost still feel the dampness of Han Solo’s tears on his neck. He rubs angrily at the spot, before he punches the wall with his gloved fist.

Pain centres him. Memories may haunt him, but he _has_ to be stronger than this. 

Supreme Leader Kylo Ren has scored his first victory, clawed back that mortifying defeat on Crait. The Bryx Sector is all but secured now - a few planets may require consolidation, but the hardest battle has been won. 

“Through victory, my chains are broken,” he murmurs to the emptiness, unable to disguise the cynicism in his voice. Is this what victory looks like? Pacing in his lonely chambers, talking to shadows, reciting the pointless diatribe of a dead religion, and feeling the secondhand rage and frustration he suspects is coming from his itinerant General on the other side of the _Finalizer?_ Kylo groans.

Victory was never meant to taste this sour.

Victory should mean twirling his beautiful scavenger-turned-Empress in his arms, hearing her musical laughter, tasting her kiss… 

“You surprised me today, Ben,” comes a familiar voice from behind, causing Kylo to jump. He pivots round to face the apparition of Luke Skywalker, leaning casually against the wall. In the blue light of hyperspace, he appears almost _real,_ and Kylo feels a breath shudder in his chest. “Those kids… down on Kijimi… Were you remembering that day Han brought you to the Jedi Praxeum? Force, I thought he’d never let go of you… Twenty years, and it still seems like yesterday.” He chuckles without humour. 

Kylo places a hand against the wall to steady himself, and resolutely focuses his attention on a small scratch in the durasteel to avoid looking at Skywalker. “I am the Supreme Leader of a huge military organisation… I am _not_ running a kriffing orphanage for foundlings. Besides,” he says with rising menace in his tone, “The Resistance will be long dead, and the galaxy under the First Order’s control long before most of them reach maturity to be useful as soldiers. Why squander those resources now?”

Skywalker merely sighs. “You know Ben, one of the last things I said to my sister was that no-one was ever truly gone. I won’t deny that since my death, part of me has worried that I had lied to her. Because of your actions today, that fear has now subsided. Thank you.” 

Then, he vanished, and Kylo was left staring into the void, feeling that snap of pain and bewilderment in equal measure.

* * *

Dusk is beginning to descend on Ajan Kloss, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, when General Leia Organa receives word that a ship is entering atmo. She pushes aside the plate of stew she has been poking with her fork for the last 20 minutes, and takes a final gulp of her cold tea before leaving her chambers and heading out onto the main base. The mess tent seems to empty, a dozen tentative faces watching her as she makes her way to towards the clearing/designated landing bay. 

A strange excitement churns in her belly - part nerves, part anticipation. She suspects she is picking up on the emotions of her men and women as well.

She spots the vessel, sunlight gleaming off it’s polished silver exterior as it descends. The wind whips a stray tendril into Leia’s eyes, and she brushes it away. The air thrums with the sound of the vessel’s engines.

Once the ship has landed, Leia lets out a breath. She watches as the boarding ramp lowers, and a woman dressed in black with flaming red hair and a blaster strapped casually to her right thigh begins to descend. 

Before she realises, Leia’s feet have carried her to the base of the ramp, and she looks into those familiar green eyes and sardonic smile.

“Princess-General Leia Organa-Solo,” the pilot bows, the goggles on her brow slipping marginally before she readjusts then. “Couldn’t have found a more backwater, awkward planet to hide on, could you?”

“Mara Jade,” comes Leia’s reply, a genuine smile appearing on her lips. “It has been far too long.” She embraces the other woman like a sister, ignoring the bewildered looks of the small audience. Her voice drops to a whisper. “Where the kriff have you been?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where in the galaxy is Mara Jade? Or: what's an ex-Imperial assassin with a spaceship and a redemption arc to do with herself when the galaxy comes knocking?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m about to play a bit fast & loose with Legends canon… But if DLF can retcon Rey into a Palpatine for TROS, then maybe there’s a place for Mara Jade here.

**_A few weeks earlier…_ **

You couldn’t get a halfway decent Correllian whiskey anywhere in the Outer Rim these days. The situation at Black Spire outpost had been particularly dire these last months.

Mara Jade was not a drinker _per se_ – being fully teetotal was frowned upon in her profession, although outright drunkenness was only barely tolerated - but she enjoyed the occasional glass of emerald wine. Gatalentan tea was more to her tastes as a day-to-day beverage. The warmth and the spices would suffuse through her body, relaxing her aching muscles, enhancing her enjoyment. She had consumed it with friends, with lovers, and even alone on those quiet nights aboard the _Jade’s Fire_ when pangs of loneliness had snapped at her.

Today, however, Gatalentan tea would not offer her the comfort she needed.

She needed something stronger.

Even the bustle of Smuggler’s Alley had grown still as Mara made her way toward Oga’s Cantina. Gone were the market stalls – the sellers having packed up early and returned to their families, no doubt. The three suns still blazed overhead, and Mara felt sweat begin to bead on her brow. She could hear the clatter of her boots on the path as she walked. Even the womp-rats who would normally scuttle through the streets were absent. A few insects buzzed around her, the only creatures that seemed ignorant of how drastically the galaxy had changed in the last few hours.

Even when she entered the cantina, at the far end of the alley, she wasn’t greeted with the roars of conversation and laughter she was accustomed to. The cantina was still _busy,_ with familiar faces gathered at their usual tables. The air was heavy was smoke and spice, and something less tangible but more oppressive. The two twi’lek merchants in the corner were sedate, no wild gesticulating or ranting about changes to the import tax. Even Oga herself, normally the picture of joviality, was absentmindedly wiping a rag over the same spot on the bar and sighing into the distance. 

Mara understood their feelings.

She had _known_ something was wrong hours before she saw the news holos. 

She had been deep in the bowels of the _Jade’s Fire_ , attempting to bypass the compressor for the third time in as many weeks, when she felt… something. A chill crept over her body, hairs standing up on her bare arms. Then, sudden and powerful as a blaster shot, it hit her. She stumbled backwards, landing painfully on her toolbox. 

She had _never_ felt a disturbance in the Force like this… this twisted crackling, this agony, like something tearing into her chest and crushing her heart… She remembered Alderaan, remembered feeling a shift on that day all those decades ago.

But this… this was on a different magnitude.

Bile rose in her throat, and she hastily grabbed a wastebasket. She gripped it with one hand, and pulled back her hair with the other as she retched. Once her stomach was empty, she collapsed to the floor. Sweat clung to her brow, and she gulped air greedily.

She might have lain on the dusty floor of her ship for hours. It might only have been minutes. But her first action was to visit the ‘fresher, to wash the taste from her mouth, and scrub her skin raw.

It was times like this that she remembered all the blood on her own hands.

As she ran a towel through her flame-coloured hair, now liberally streaked with silver, she forced herself to watch the news holos.

Hosnian Prime, gone… The entire system obliterated… Trillions dead… A terrifying new superweapon harking back to the darker days of the Empire. A cold war most had ignored had declared itself to be very hot, very present, and a very real danger to the lives and freedoms of the entire galaxy. 

This First Order lacked the manners or patience of the Emperor, wheedling his way to increased powers over the span of a decade, until the galaxy had sacrificed its own liberties and freedoms for a facsimile of security. No, they had simply obliterated the New Republic Government with a decisive strike, and would sweep up the systems as they descended into anarchy. Neat, brutal, and victorious.

And infinitely more frightening than the Death Star.

By the time she was towelling her hair dry, Mara’s resolve had already crystallised. But first, before she reached out to those she had been avoiding for years (although, she mused, that avoidance was not entirely one-sided), a drink wouldn’t hurt. 

She told herself it was purely for comfort. Mara Jade, former Hand of the Emperor, one-time Imperial Assassin, not-entirely-a-Jedi, and smuggler extraordinaire, was assuredly _not_ in need of liquid courage.

And if she believed that lie… well, it had kept her alive so far.

* * *

Once she had downed three glasses of whiskey, and a knock-off bottle of Sunberry wine to wash away the taste, Mara took a deep breath. _No sense in putting it off any further,_ she told herself.

She spread her fingers over the bar, and closed her eyes.

The Force hummed around her, a cacophony evolving into a perfectly orchestrated song. She searched through the notes, seeking one particular thread. A thread she had experimentally tugged on numerous occasions these last six years. Now, whether it was through desperation or simply a sign she was more inebriated than she realised, Mara was positively wrenching for it.

Luke Skywalker couldn’t fully hide from the Force. He was too powerful, and regardless, he and Mara had shared too much, too intimately, for her to not sense his presence. 

Or, as she had grown used to these last years, his obvious absence.

Absence in the Force ought to mean death – but this was different. If she had tried to articulate it, she might describe it as feeling the shadow of his Force signature, but without the object itself. But still she searched, for even the faintest glimmer or echo. Only silence greeted her. _Come on, farm boy… Take your lightsaber out of your arse, and get back to the fray. They need you._

After a few minutes, she curled her hand into a fist and punched the table.

Oga growled. “Don’t make me ban you too, Mara Jade.” 

Mara schooled her features into what she hoped was a contrite expression, and tilted her head. “Sorry, Oga. It’s just been one of those days.” She pushes an empty glass toward the Blutopian proprietress. 

She ought not to have been surprised that Luke had gone into hiding. He had learned that little trick from his mentors. Obi Wan Kenobi had hidden away on a third rate desert underworld planet for the better part of two decades; Master Yoda hadn’t fared any better, and had even allowed the Force to claim him at an inconveniently crucial point in the galactic conflict. 

_The Jedi code ought to have added a line_ , Mara thinks sourly. _There is no conflict, there is only cowardice_. Frankly, the only Jedi of that generation she had ever any respect for was Ashoka Tano. She holds her glass up for a refill, and raises a silent toast to her late friend and occasional mentor. If Ashoka could see the state of the galaxy now, she would almost certainly be turning in her grave.

A little irritant voice reminded her that she had started to drop off the scanners herself in the last few months. Mara growled - keeping a low profile was assuredly _not_ the same thing as hiding.

Mara Jade had kept off the First Order’s radar, by and large. There were enough old relics of the Empire keen to conscript a former Emperor’s Hand to their new cause. There might have been the one particularly _insistent_ recruiter last year, requiring a very forceful (and very permanent) _No_ to leave her in peace… but she had managed to avoid those habits for a long time, and wouldn’t be breaking them for trivial reasons. 

But maybe now was the time to get back into the fray.

By her sixth drink - and now, Mara _was_ at least partially inebriated - she decided that if she wasn’t going to personally drag Luke Skywalker back into the galactic war, then she probably had time for a quick trip to the closest place to home she knew.

* * *

That night, Mara dreamed.

Of the dark belly of some monstrous structure, of a bridge bathed in darkness. Of two figures illuminated only by the glow of a crimson saber. Of a monstrous sin against nature itself, and a soul ripped asunder.

When she woke, entangled in her sheets and soaked with sweat, something was _wrong._ True, her head ached ( _kriff_ , when had she ever allowed herself to get drunk?), but this was different. The Force itself seemed to cry out in anguish, and her mind immediately jumped to another star system burned on the whim of some Sith wannabe despot…

This was a tragedy on a more personal, more intimate scale than the genocide that had preceded it.

The darker side of her nature seemed to stir; a quieted rage she had trained herself to muzzle and ignore, the last echoes of her Master’s voice buzzing in her mind.

The shadow, the Dark side of the Force, was awake, pulsating and positively _ravenous_. But the Light wasn’t exactly quiescent either - something else was awakening. She could feel both sides of the Force skittering through her body, each trying to tell her something… if only she could interpret their words.

Her feet brushed the carpet as she swung her legs out of bed. She was still in her jacket and trousers from earlier, but at least she had remembered, even in her cups, to take her boots off before going to bed. She padded to the kitchen, and set about making herself a cup of the strongest caf she could stomach and munched on an almost-stale ration bar.

Whom could she ask about it? Mara wondered as she cradled the mug in her hands and watched the steam make little patterns in the air. Her first thought - Luke - was met with a derisive snort from herself. Of course Farm Boy would know… if the kriffing curmudgeon ever crawled out of whatever backwater bolthole he had taken up refuge in.

The next face that popped into her mind was that of Maz Kanata; assuming, that is, they were still on speaking terms. Their last interaction hadn’t ended entirely amicably… 

Otherwise, Mara’s list of Force sensitive acquaintances (especially those still alive) was empty. She doubted any of the Jedi past would come to her to elucidate the secrets and mysteries of the Force; and even assuming she managed to summon them, she certainly wasn’t a strict devotee to the Jedi code with all its pompousness; chances of them offering her anything useful was about the same odds as a Hutt forgiving an old debt. Zilch.

Besides, there were more practical measures to attend to. Such as finding a means of contacting Leia Organa and her current little rebel army. The obvious choice - via Han - was problematic for two reasons.

One: Since the loss of the _Millennium Falcon_ a few years back, she had no means of contacting him directly.

Two: Given the state of his marriage, she doubted he and Leia were in particularly close contact anyway.

It had been nearly two years since Mara and Han’s paths had last crossed. His cocksure, easy grin had long faded, and even his eyes were weary. Age seemed to have crept upon him in more ways than the physical. Oh, he had hidden it well – but to Mara, who had known him for decades, it was blatant.

The _Falcon’s_ loss she knew well – had even put her ear to the ground to see if anyone knew anything about it. In that time, he had taken on increasingly reckless and dangerous jobs. Who in their right, or even semi-right mind, would transport _rathtars_?

Mara and Han had spoken briefly, perfunctorily, over a meal in a cantina similar to the one she had drank herself into a stupor in only hours earlier. He had shut down on any questions even bordering on the personal; their conversation had danced awkwardly around speeder racing, ship repair, and comments about the weather. “I’m fine,” he had groused on any attempt she made to discuss sentiment of any flavour.

But Mara knew better.

Over the years, she had kept a vague interest in the comings and goings of Luke, so of course she knew of the destruction of his new Jedi Praxeum on Yavin IV, of his subsequent disappearance. She had seen clips of the black-clad figure of Kylo Ren and his knights terrorising the enemies of the First Order. Kylo Ren, dressed as a pale imitation of Darth Vader, with his crackling red lightsaber. It did not take Mara long to guess the face of that mysterious phantasm beneath the mask. Her heart ached, and she began to understand Han’s state of mind.

What comfort could she offer him? No words in any language could soothe his grief; only provoke anger, or worse, embarrassment. 

She had embraced him and Chewbacca when they parted. Before he could pull away, she had whispered in his ear, “The next time you see Leia, let her know… Mara Jade will come to her aid if she ever needs it. I won’t even charge.” Even her attempt at levity had failed to pull a smile from him.

So, Han was out as a means of contacting the Resistance. That left only one other person who might be able to put her in touch with Leia Organa… 

She tried to comm Lando three times, and three times he failed to answer. Instead, she transmitted a simple holo message, and hoped his natural charm would add a touch more sentiment to it by the time it eventually reaches Leia.

Mara returned to bed, and fell into an uneasy but dreamless sleep.

* * *

Seven days passed before the _Jade’s Fire_ docked in the Coruscant Spaceport. The journey would normally take half that time, but Mara had made a detour via Bespin in the hope of catching Lando - a dashed hope, as his assistant had only been able to furnish her with the information that he was on a “business trip” but no itinerary or planned return date. A complete waste of a journey; even the Force itself pulsed within her, warning her that time really was of the essence.

Practically the moment Mara set foot on Coruscant, she found herself desperately missing the stars. Galactic City was ablaze with colours and lights of every hue, but one could scarcely see the sky, and there was no chance of spotting any stars amidst the light pollution.

Coruscant wasn’t home in the sense of warm memories and welcoming. It was merely geography - the site of the old Imperial Palace she had grown up in, where she had cut her teeth as the Emperor’s Hand, sharpened her skills and spilled her first blood.

Too many bad memories here… 

The Coruscanti hadn’t taken well to their reduced position after the fall of the Empire; with the government relocated to Chandrilla, and then Hosnian Prime, much of the business district had dried up.

The place was always a hive of scum and villainy, as long as Mara could remember. Only difference was it had lost its veneer of respectability and been forced to accept that.

The air was thick with smog. She cast her eyes to the chrono - it was still early, probably too early for any of the sort of people she hoped to catch in one of the underground cantinas. By taciturn agreement, bounty hunters were rarely seen this side of midnight. 

Well, if she had a few hours to kill…

* * *

The Imperial Tea House in the upper Uscura District had seen better days (although the same could of course be said for the rest of the city). The facade was unchanged - same green and blue transparisteel windows, same faux stone doorway trying to give an air of greater age and influence than a second rate tea house perhaps deserved - but the air inside smelled musky, and a few of the tables were a little more battered than Mara remembered from her last visit three years ago.

The clientele were decidedly less sophisticated as well. Once, the tea house had played host to senators and socialites; opera singers and Imperial officers of the highest ranking; and filthy rich businessmen and women from across the galaxy, come to flaunt their influence and affluence. 

Mara stood by the marble podium in the entranceway, and tried to attract the attention of a Mon Calamari waiter chatting animatedly with the chef. After a few minutes of loudly clearing her throat, she sighed and simply leaned against the transparisteel. Her eyes roved over the dozen patrons. Ordinary people mostly - not those whose words or acts could influence a galaxy on any scale. No treaties being brokered, no sealing of company takeovers over a genteel cup of tea. 

Although, one man stood out to her. His dark beard and hair were speckled with grey, and his long velvet coat of emerald green belied a greater wealth than the garb of his much younger companion, a pretty girl with copper hair, dressed in a black gown that was fraying at the hems. The girl’s cheeks were drawn, lean, and her eyes were sparkling as she drank in their surroundings. 

A man of that social class would not sink to bringing a wife here… but it might be the bauble to seduce a wide-eyed innocent into his bed. 

Mara sensed a presence behind her - another patron had entered, a man of similar age to herself dressed in a sharp black uniform, complete with military command cap and a silver emblem that most assuredly did _not_ belong to the New Republic forces… In fact, it seemed a sinister facsimile of the Imperial military uniforms of old.

The man stood a few feet away, and snapped his gloved fingers loudly three times, unlike the waiter spotted him and hurried over, murmuring an apology.

He waved him off dismissively. “I believe the lady was here first,” he says, tilting his head towards Mara.

“But of course!” the waiter replied, bowing so deep that his jaw nearly scraped the tiled floor. 

“Table for one,” Mara said, and watched as the Mon Calamari’s mouth sank into a frown.

“Oh, I am sorry Ma’am, but we do not offer tables for one,” he said, bowing once again. He cast his eyes to the counter. “We can of course offer you counter service-”

“That’s fine.”

She followed him past the table of couples, and found herself seated on a wobbly stool at the long counter to the rear of the tea house. Here, the air was thick with the scents wafting in from the kitchen - freshly baked cakes, spiced salads and a dozen different flavours of tea. 

The counter space to her left was occupied, a Neimodian female absorbed in a holonovel whilst devouring a jewel-fruit tart with equal gusto. 

Unfortunately, no sooner had Mara placed her order when the waiter escorted the First Order officer to the empty stool on her right. His elbow bumped against hers, and he did not even have the grace to murmur an apology.

“Manners cost nothing, you know,” she said, and turned to him with a glare.

“I didn’t usurp your place in the queue,” came his terse reply. A vein was already pulsating at his temple - clearly, this was a man unused to challenge. “Therefore you have no grounds on which to critique my manners or upbringing.”

Her retort was cut off by the reappearance of the waiter, bearing a pot of tarine tea and a slice of jogan fruit cake, which he placed in front of Mara. He made a grand show of pouring the tea - a gesture that would never have been permitted in the olden days when this was still an elite establishment - and vanished again with a bow. Mara frowned at the creeping servility of it all.

She poked at the purple fruit atop her cake with a fork a few times, until it popped and its red purple contents spilled over the plate. She sipped her tea, and briefly tried to read whatever was causing her Neiomodian neighbour to sigh breathily - until, that was, she caught a glimpse of a sentence so decidedly pornographic in nature that she snapped her attention away. 

Her other neighbour was slicing into a jewel fruit tart, when he bumped his elbow against her again. Her initial instinct was to take a blaster to him - but, she rationalised, that was likely to get her banned. At the current rate, she would be on the banned list of as many establishments as Han himself.

Instead, she simply glared, before her eyes fell on the datapad in the officer’s hand - specifically, what looked like schematics for a TIE fighter. 

Her mind had not fully caught up with her mouth when she forced an acerbic smile onto her lips and asked, “What brings you to Coruscant?”

“Business,” he said brusquely, not even lifting his gaze.

“And what business does a First Order commander have on Coruscant?” At his surprised look, Mara barked a laugh. “I used to be an Imp myself - I recognise the type. Besides, in case you haven’t noticed, your people have been all over the holos in the last few days. Quite the little stunt you pulled.”

“And quite necessary,” he replied. “Things have been chaotic since the fall of the Empire - the New Republic could scarcely organise an orgy in a brothel!”

“No,” Mara conceded, “But at least we taught our officers not to read confidential material in public.” His eyes widened, but she merely leaned forward, resting her chin on her fist. “Lucky for you, I’m very discreet.”

He looked flustered and hastily powered down his datapad. “I fact for which I am exceedingly grateful, Madame…”

“Arica,” she said, plucking the most obscure of her aliases. “And it’s Miss, actually.” She turned her attention away from him to enjoy another bite of her dessert - the berries were slightly under-ripe, and the sweetness was cut through with more tartness than was her preference, but it was palatable. 

“Miss Arica,” the officer said, testing the name, before extending a gloved hand for her to shake. “Captain Valen Skerris.”

Mara shook his hand firmly. “Skerris… Any relation to Commander Vult Skerris?”

Skerris’ eyes flashed briefly. “My late father,” he said. “You knew him?”

“By reputation only, alas. I… flirted with the idea of becoming a fighter pilot, but alas, my reflexes were not fast enough. My work for the glory of the Empire was predominantly clerical - I would spend a lot of my time corresponding with the Sienar-Jaemus corporation, filing accounts, helping put in requests for new TIE fighters. Goodness, it’s been a long time since I thought about that. Say, are they still based here on Coruscant?”

Mara could see the moment he was hooked - the fish that looked like it had captured a morsel, the moment before it realised only doom waited on the end of the line…

“Why yes, although much of their production was moved to other planets. But the headquarters are still there - in fact,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “I was there on behalf of Supreme Leader Snoke only this morning.”

“Oh, how interesting!”

Mara hid the smallest smirk behind her cup.

Baited.

Lured.

Ensnared.

* * *

By the time Mara had managed to extricate herself from the Imperial Tea House, and the over familiarity of Captain Skerris, the Uscura District was beginning to wake up. The streets now teemed with a hundred species, and the throng of the crowd was moving unashamedly towards the lower quarters. Which is where Mara herself intended to be, but she hesitated.

The hesitation was not nerves - she had been in far darker, more perilous alleys than the path down the Outlander Club. It was the hesitation of her conscience, a struggle between the two halves of her soul that had never fully been resolved even three decades later.

_You should kill him,_ the voice within her whispered.

What startled her more was that voice belonged to the _light_ part of herself.

Moral values were deeply undesirable in an assassin - one of the reasons she had long ago abandoned the profession, even if she had kept proficient in its necessary skill set.

_This is war, Mara,_ the voice reminds her. _He’s an enemy soldier… how many people will die in the gunfire from those TIE fighters he was bragging about?_

Then, the moment was upon her - she watched him leave the tea house. He wouldn’t have walked here - and certainly wouldn’t have taken lodgings in this part of the city - so she kept her eyes peeled for a speeder.

Skerris began to walk in the direction of the main concourse. Tuning herself into the Force, she focuses on the sound of his heartbeat. His pulse is erratic, excited… She willed calm into her body, snaking silently through the crowd, blending in, never losing her him from her sight.

Purpose builds in her; a sense that this may not be _right,_ but certainly justified. Her mind stilled, even as her muscles grew taut and ready.

Then, Skerris cut down a quieter alley - few people, and most of them already lost in the haze of alcohol and spice. Perfect.

Her approach is swift, silent as a loth-cat. 

The sound of her blaster rent the air, and he barely uttered a squeak before falling dead at her feet.

* * *

By the time Mara has fought her way through the crowds to the Outlander Club, her heartbeat had slowed to its normal tempo, even if the waves of guilt were threatening to crash over her.

In the bad old days, she would have cut down a target without ceremony, and then moved on. She had forgotten half of the faces of those whose lives she had taken. Had that been her choice, a coping mechanism, or was that simply Palpatine in her mind?

She stumbled to the bar, pushing past half a dozen inebriated and obnoxious patterns, ordered the largest glass of Correllian brandy, and downed it in a single gulp. Her throat burned, and Mara felt something that might have been a tear (if she was willing to acknowledge her ability to cry) pricking at her eye.

Two twi’leks stood to her left, chattering away. She had not quite intended to eavesdrop, but she caught the name “Han Solo” and suddenly she was riveted to their conversation.

“Say that again,” she rasped.

The closer of the two stared at her, fingering his pale green lekku nervously. “There’s a, eh… rumour… that Han Solo is dead.”

It was only when she heard the cracking sound, and felt the hot sting of blood as the transparisteel shards dug into her flesh, that she realised she had crushed the glass in her fist.

“No,” she whispered.

The room seemed to grow fuzzy; sounds indistinct, the air thick and choking and oppressive in a way that had nothing to do with the fumes of spice. 

Han Solo was legendary amongst smugglers, even if he slipped in and out of the role as frequently as one might change a pair of boots. The famous Kessel run… the battle of Endor… the Death Star… Not to forget that unfortunate business with Jabba the Hutt and carbonite. A legend, to be sure, but part cautionary tale as well. 

Han Solo, gone? No, this _had_ to be one of his elaborate tricks, or simply bad info. Not uncommon in these parts. Smugglers might fake their deaths once in a while (or more frequently, depending on the aggression of their creditors), but that was never Han’s style.

The twi’leks were watching her warily, both of them taking a step back.

“That’s all I heard,” the one who had not initially spoken said. “My money is on one of the Hutts, come to collect. Rotta the Hutt has been out for his blood for decades!”

Some things Mara knew instinctively. Whether it was her Force sensitivity, or simply a lifetime of watching, observing, and needing to know things for survival, she still hadn’t solved. But it was an essential skill for an Emperor’s Hand, and a useful one for a smuggler.

And, with a twisting feeling in her chest, she knew their words were true. Perhaps the nightmare of a few nights ago was less a vile product of her subconscious, but a painfully real vision.

Even worse, she could make a reasonable guess as to who was responsible… That was the way of the Dark side - carve out all that made you human; all softness, all affections, until only power and blind loyalty remained. 

Poor Leia… 

And poor troubled Ben Solo.

Mara stormed out the Outlander Club, ignoring the indignant cries of the patrons she pushed away in her haste; it was not until the coolness of the night air hit her, that she remembered her hand was still bleeding.

She leaned against a filthy wall, pressing her brow to the cold durasteel. If the last time she searched for Luke in the Force she was desperate, now she was positively frantic.

_Answer me, Skywalker! Do you even know Han is dead? How can you still hide away? Leia needs you!_

_I… I need you._

The lack of a response was more deafening than an explosion, and more painful than a blaster shot to the chest.

* * *

How she got back to the spaceport, Mara could not remember. The assassination of Captain Skerris earlier that night was forgotten - how silly to weep over an enemy who would have killed her with as little ceremony or conscience, especially when she now had a very real friend to mourn.

The cold water of the ‘fresher was upon her skin like hailstones - painful, but what she needed to centre her. An old Sith technique - useful, if not deeply unpleasant, and tonight didn’t feel like a night for Jedi mediation or communing with the Light side. It wouldn’t wash away her grief or her sins… but right now, all Mara Jade needed was _focus._

Even hours later, pouring herself a cup of tea (Gatalentan this time, with a liberal helping of cream and nectar), her hands still trembled. She slumped on the couch in the main living quarters, and cradled the mug in her left hand. Her right was heavily bandaged, with a liberal application of bacta patches - by morning, it would be good as new. She could fire a blaster left-handed easily enough, but she had never _quite_ mastered left-handed saber forms.

Her lightsaber laid on the table in front her. She could almost hear the hum of her kyber crystal - was it sensing her turbulent emotions, sensing that it was about to see use in battle once more?

She sat up, and set her half-drunk tea to one side. As she was reaching for the lightsaber, to reacquaint her hands with its weight, something in the Force shifted. It was soft, at first – like a lover carding fingers through her hair. Then, that twisting feeling behind her sternum returned – but this time, it was so much worse. Searing hot agony gripped her chest, and she had to grip the table to steady herself.

_Goodbye, Mara Jade…_ she hears, whispering into her mind in an achingly familiar voice.

_Luke…_

She groped blindly through the Force, clutching and grasping for that familiar shadow, or even the tendrils of a signature that had remained quiescent for far too long.

Only emptiness, real and gaping, greeted her.

This time, the pricking at her eyes was _definitely_ tears.

Luke Skywalker was dead.

Memories came upon her then, an assault and invasion of that which she had kept buried so deep within her.

_That violent bloodlust which gripped her after the Emperor’s death, calling her to vengeance._

_The clashing of their sabers against one another in the dance of a duel._

_The warmth of his hands against her face, the heat of his breath as their lips met. Heat of a different kind as their bodies danced in passion. Whispered words of love ghosting over her skin. Security, belonging, pleasure._

**_Love…_ **

_Banter turning to bitter recrimination – arguments and slammed doors. Burning passion cooling to cold civility. And then… silence._

Luke Skywalker was dead.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heavy the head that wears the crown… and heavier still with the torment of dreams. Meanwhile, two old friends catch up.

The bridge of the _Finalizer_ is bathed in red light as Kylo Ren enters. Each of his footsteps echoes like a thunderclap as he strides over to the viewport. Hux and Pryde are already waiting for him. The ship hovers over a green planet, barely larger than a moon. The air is still, yet he feels uncomfortably warm.

“Supreme Leader,” Hux says in a monotonous voice. “We have tracked the location of the Resistance base. Our weapons systems are ready to fire on your command.”

Panic rises in Kylo, and he feels unable to breath. _Disable the systems,_ he says, but those are not the words which escape him.

“Excellent,” comes the sinister, modulated voice from his helmet. He can feel it tighten around him, pressing on his neck until his lungs burn from lack of air. “Launch a full assault - no survivors.”

Hux and Pryde laugh; the officers on the bridge join in, until the cacophony of howls and jeers is deafening. 

A hand with long, sharp fingers grips his shoulders. _Watch them all burn,_ comes a familiar, gravelly voice. His whole body feels heavy, like the artificial gravity has been ranked up, and he finds himself sinking to the floor. It takes everything to turn his head, and he stares into the cold, fixed gaze of Snoke.

Kylo watches as the sky fills with fire, as familiar screams fill his mind, the pleading, begging voice of his mother.

_Ben, no!_

* * *

He jolts awake, soaked, cold and with a pounding in his chest so powerful, he foolishly wonders if his heart is about to leap out. He buries his hands in his hair and tugs, _hard_ , welcoming the distraction of the pain. 

With a snarl, he realises that his eyes have filled with tears. He rubs angrily at his face, clawing with his nails; he half-wants to tear open the scar on his face. Bleed away his feelings, his shame. Mark another sin upon his flesh, even if it is one committed only in a dreamscape.

The mattress suddenly dips. He reacts.

The lightsaber is ignited in his hand, pointed at the blue-tinged figure sitting at the foot of his bed.

“Do we have to go through this again, Ben?” Skywalker asks, settling himself back and looking _far_ too comfortable.

Suddenly, Kylo is twenty-three again, stirring from an uneasy sleep to find himself in a fight for his life. He was weak then, vulnerable. Too trusting, too foolish, too _desperate_ for the approval of a master who never even attempted to understand his troubled nephew.

“Get. Out.”

The trembling of his lightsaber betrays his anxiety.

Skywalker does not react; merely looks wistfully in the distance. “You used to have nightmares all the time. I told Leia you would outgrow them. Add that to the list of all the ways I was wrong about you; about everything.”

“Is this some form of catharsis for you, tormenting me?” Kylo asks, trying (and failing) to convey a sense of menace when he is exhausted and half-naked in bed. 

“No,” Skywalker says with a low chuckle, watching as Kylo throws off the bedclothes with one hand, the other still clutching his lightsaber so tight that his knuckles are as white as bone. He walks over to the closet, and yanks a black shirt from its hanger. For a moment, his gaze flirts between the garment and his sparking lightsaber. 

In the end, modesty wins over security. The blade falls dark, and he lays it down reverently on a table before tugging the shirt over his head.

When Kylo turns his gaze back towards the bed, he finds his uncle’s Force ghost has moved into a cross-legged position, and the bastard has closed his eyes. “What the… Are you… meditating?”

“You ought to try it,” Skywalker retorts, not bothering to open his eyes, but a small smirk plays on his lips. “Might chase away the nightmares. Make you less of an irascible bastard.”

Kylo shook his head, a few stray locks falling into his eyes. “Mediation isn’t going to chase _these_ nightmares away. It didn’t work twenty years ago.”

“Twenty years ago, you had Snoke whispering poison into your ear,” he counters, and opens his eyes to look sorrowfully upon his nephew. “He’s gone - _you_ killed him. He isn’t the one trapping you in nightmares any more, Ben. That’s entirely your own doing. But I think, even if you refuse to acknowledge it, you _are_ fighting that part of yourself.”

Kylo grasps for the familiarity of anger; wearing it like armour; but all he feels is endless weariness. Rage was easy, violence cleansing. Without it, he feels lost and adrift. 

Skywalker makes no move to leave, and he wonders if this is going to be the rest of his life, visited nightly by the spectre of his dead uncle. Kylo moves to his chair - the one he has slept in the night Rey’s prone and sleeping form had appeared in his bed - and settles himself there in mullish silence.

No more words pass between him and Skywalker, and his uncle _eventually_ disappears. But Kylo does not return to bed. Instead, he leans back in the chair, staring at the shadows dancing across his ceiling.

He plays the last weeks’ events over in his mind. Scattered images, like a degraded holomovie, but each one tugging at something within hi.

Kijimi… the crying woman and her children… the onslaught of long-buried memories…

The throne room… Rey, prone and screaming as Snoke tortured her, the rising anger in his heart… Rey again, crying and begging, refusing to listen. _Can’t you see that we could do better than everything that has gone before us?_

But still she reaches for her lightsaber… Slams the down in their bond, that look of withering disappointment in her eyes… 

Him kneeling on the dirt floor, watching those blasted dice dissolve to nothing in his hand. Just another illusion, another breadcrumb laid as a distraction, to then evaporate like smoke. 

_Let old things die… Let go of the past…_

Except, since the moment he had become Supreme Leader, and taken charge of the First Order, he had failed to do exactly that. Chased the Resistance down when they had only as much power to torment the Order as a fly to a rathtar. Humiliated himself by wasting his resources blowing up a mirage, wasted time fighting that same illusion and allowed the Resistance to slip through his fingers like grains of sand. Even his war council had simply been to continue the plans already left in place by Snoke. 

_You wanted to be your own Master, but the way I see it, you’re still trapped in a role._

In fact, his first truly independent act as Supreme Leader was halting the kidnapping of those children down on Kijimi. It had only increased the animosity between himself and Hux, of that Kylo was certain - the Order’s Stormtrooper programme had been overseen by Brendol Hux, after all. And the First Order’s senior ranks held enough old fossils of the Empire. There was always a great affection for the programme - a reminder of the days of old and of the Empire. 

The one that had toppled in no small part thanks to the actions of Kylo’s own family: his uncle, his parents.

Well, he groused, _his_ Empire was not going to fall the same way.

He remembers that nightmare, his face trapped in the mask. _A new Vader,_ that was what Snoke had hoped to mould him into. A powerful enforcer for a new Empire; not his right-hand man, a trusted advisor, being groomed for power of his own. Simply the muscle and raw aggression to frighten his enemies into subjugation. A terrifying tale for children. _You’d better behave, or Kylo Ren will come and get you._

He remembers the plaintive cry of his mother, calling out to him at the moment of her death; the pain in his chest, and the bizarre relief of knowing this was naught but a dream. 

Another voice whispers into Kylo’s mind… Rey’s tearfilled whisper of “Ben?” in the smouldering ruin of Snoke’s throne room. He imagines that word on her lips again, this time spoken with her dying breath. His arms remember the feel of her body in his grasp as he had carried her unconscious form to his shuttle, the warmth of her skin burning through his thick black robes. 

A vision burns before his eyes - cradling her again, her face bloodied and bruised, robes soaked with her blood, her eyes glassy and lifeless. His trembling fingers running over her lips, her cheeks, feeling her skin grow ice cold. A roar rips from his throat, and he buries his face in his hands. A deadweight sinks in his gut.

Though Rey may not want him, though the growing closeness he had felt for her was never reciprocated, though she will never _love_ him (and the word tastes like ash in his mouth), he cannot let her die. Not by his hand, or the hands of the First Order. The pain and guilt would be the end of him. 

So, Kylo rationalises, if he is unwilling to quash the Resistance through military might alone, he needs another way. A slow suffocation and surrender. 

Leia Organa, surrender? He snorts. But the image of her, of _Rey,_ lifeless at his feet, still lingers, and the pain is worse than any torture that Snoke could ever have forced him to endure. 

For the sake of his own tenuous hold on his sanity, he has to _try_.

* * *

The hour is late, yet sleep does not welcome Armitage Hux into its embrace. Fury bubbles within him, at any moment threatening to spill over. He rips the bedsheets from his body, and rubs at his face roughly.

His throat still aches from Ren’s little power display down on Kijimi. 

He had croaked his way through a rant to Pryde as soon as the _Supreme Leader_ was out of earshot. It had been inelegant, but a necessary release. He can still feel the bite of humiliation gnawing at him. Belittled before his troops, his officers, thrown into the snow, and then forced to witness Ren effectively cripple the Stormtrooper programme - the culmination of his father’s work in the First Order…

He sighs - his body still remembers the sting of Brendol Hux’s hand on his cheek, the crack of a belt against his skin. The shadow of that weak boy, hiding his tearstained face in his shirt, still lives within his soul. Even the act of killing Hux Senior - deeply satisfying as it had been - had not exorcised that particular ghost.

Brendol Hux had made clear his regard (or lack thereof) for his bastard son. Yet, a strange filial loyalty still brims in Hux’s chest. The Stormtrooper programme may have been initiated by his father, but it was himself and Phasma who had crafted it into the militia now conquering worlds. An echo of the Empire of old, but modernized, moulded to suit the aims of the First Order.

And now, with one single impulsive decision, one moment of pathetic human _weakness_ on Ren’s part, it was on the verge of crumbling.

Impotence settles over Hux, thick and cloying. These few weeks of Ren’s tenure as Supreme Leader have tested him and his patience - and yes, dammit, even his _loyalty._ Disloyalty was anathema to him - his every breath, every heartbeat, every action was for the First Order, its ascension and its glory. Yet, how to remain loyal to a regime with a figurehead whose actions were poisoning the Order from within?

What was it Pryde had said to him about loyalty? That loyalty to the First Order did not need to equate with loyalty to its figurehead… Kylo Ren was a cancer, corroding the Order and its influence, until it eventually crumbled. And, like all cancers, he had to be excised. 

Fantasies dance before Hux’s eyes - of Ren’s bloodied and beaten form, of a public execution, or simply slipping a vibroblade between his ribs. 

Treason may be an action, but he allows himself to indulge his thoughts for now. Tomorrow, when he has to face Ren, he will need to shield them, bury them deep. But for tonight, he can enjoy them.

Wide awake, Hux summons a servitor droid and orders his morning caf and breakfast rations. Whilst the droid fetches his meal, he grasps for his datapad. He has read this report so often, he practically has it memorized. The facts are simple: Captain Valen Skerris had been found dead in the lower Uscara District of Galactic City; a single blaster shot to the chest, no signs of struggle, and not a credit taken from his person. No leads, and (given the unscrupulous reputation of the area) not even a whiff of security footage.

The natural assumption is of course that Skerris was assassinated by the Resistance - except, Hux rationalises, their numbers are so few, and their reach too small, that he doubts they would waste their resources on such a measly target. But then who else might be responsible?

He takes a long sip of his caf, and wonders if he could justify a trip to Coruscant to investigate the matter himself.

* * *

There were too many eyes on them in the main clearing - too many curious ears looking for a morsel of gossip - for Leia and Mara Jade to linger overly long. 

Among the small crowd, Mara spotted the dark head of Harter Kalonia. The doctor met Mara’s eyes, and rapidly turned away, disappearing into one of the collection of tents. 

Chewbacca’s greeting was more cordial - he takes her hand in his giant paws, and offers her a brief hug. His growl of greeting was either _ <Good to see you> _ or _ <You look well> _ (Shyriiwook was never her forte language-wise, and she had become overly reliant on Han’s responses to deduce what exactly was being said). Once he is out of sight, she discreetly brushes away the fur clinging to her dark jacket. 

“I miss that walking carpet,” she tells Leia as they approach the main cavern of the base, and the General’s quarters.

Shadows dance along the walls as Mara sits in the proffered chair, cross-legged and humming as she gazes around the room. “At least this is nicer than Hoth,” she muses. 

Leia snorts. “And a damn sight warmer too - I used to worry that I’d wake up to find my toes had fallen off.” She shakes her head. “But I’m guessing you didn’t drag yourself halfway across the galaxy to trade barbs about my accommodations?” She makes no move to sit - her arms are folded across her chest, and she leans back one leg. Though her expression is neutral, Mara senses a maelstrom of emotion within Leia. 

“No,”she says. “We’ve known each other a long time, Leia - long enough that I know you’ve never been one for pity. But I do want to tell you, first and foremost, how sorry I am for all the pain you’ve endured these last few weeks. For Han, for Luke… and yes, even for Ben.” She reaches over and clasps her hand over Leia’s. She sees her flinch at the mention of her son’s name, and her eyes seem to glisten with unshed tears. “You deserve to mourn him too - mourn him honestly.”

As Leia’s shoulders sag, she appears to wither a fraction - a sadness creeping into her eyes when there had been only determination and fire. Mara knows this was not the life she wanted - fighting another menace, widowed, and losing her only child to the seductive whisper of darkness in his heart. She was to be a Senator, fighting for democracy, a wife, a mother, perhaps even a doting grandmother… Not the woman leading a shattered and piecemeal rebellion against her own flesh and blood. All of this she sees in Leia’s eyes, in the sad thrumming of her Force signature that cannot fully conceal her emotions.

When she speaks again, her voice is rough. “Thank you… How did you…?”

Mara shrugged. “Intuition, I guess. He was a sweet child - as well you know - but there was always… something…”

“Snoke.” Leia spat out the name like poison. “He corrupted him… I think,” Her hand drifted to her belly. “When I was pregnant with Ben, I used to sense this… darkness, within him. I talked to Luke about it, and he assured me that it was nothing to worry about. That the more powerful the darkness, the greater the light within my child.” The chuckle that escapes her is devoid of humour. “They say a mother’s instinct is always right. That’s what I should have listened to, not my brother.”

“Darkness doesn’t always come in with blasters drawn and firing. It can be quiet, insidious, tightening its grip before you realise and choking you with its fury. That’s what makes it so easy to fall sometimes. It gives you what you want, but the cost is everything you are.”

There is a beat of silence, and Mara plucks at the end of her hair, not meeting Leia’s eyes, before she speaks again. “Forgive me for speaking ill of the deceased… But the Luke I knew - the later years, I mean, when he became slavishly obsessed with the Jedi code of old - lacked the nuance to handle a troubled, tormented young man.”

There is a spike in Leia’s emotions - defensiveness for her brother, guilt for her own failings, and the aching chasm of grief for a son swallowed so much by the darkness. Her only reply is a curt nod, and a frown.

Sounds of the jungle punctuate the awkward silence - hunting birds and chirping insects, and the slow rumble of the base as the Resistance makes its way to bed.

Mara stands, and begins to pace. She lingers against the cave wall for a moment, willing herself to speak the words she has sought to say since the moment she laid eyes on Leia. 

“How did…” she clears her throat. “Can you tell me how Luke… died? I mean… you don’t have to… But, if you can bear to talk about it… I _need_ to know.”

The question seems indecent at best, but Mara had _felt_ it… Not pain, not the agony of a man struck down in his prime, not even a trickle of fear. It had felt almost… peaceful. Like the Force welcoming him back into its embrace like a parent to their child. The only hurt she had felt was the gnawing of her own grief.

Leia swallows uncomfortably as she leans forward. A subtle change in posture, but she seems to age before Mara’s eyes. The firebrand Princess, the unshakeable Rebellion leader, the powerful and vocal Senator all fade, and only a grieving woman tired of hiding behind a mask remains. She has endured too much loss, in such quick succession - and at a time when her people most needed a strong, unbreakable leader. Of course, she would never break - that was not in Leia Organa’s nature - she would simply bury the hurt, focus on the crisis at hand, and channel all her wills into the fight. Personal feelings had no place in galactic conflict, not for Leia Organa.

She _definitely_ did not take after her biological father in that regard.

“The First Order… they had us cornered on Crait. Out of fuel, out of resources. I watched them shoot down a dozen of our transports, picking us off easily. By the time we made planetfall, there were barely three dozen of us left. No weapons, no one coming to our aid, and the entire might of the First Order waiting at the doors, with my own _son_ ready to give the order to obliterate us.” Leia pauses, her breaths unsteady. She closes her eyes for a moment, and lays a hand over her heart before she continues, “I… I won’t lie, Mara. I have _never_ felt so hopeless in all my life. Not even after Alderaan…” The air seems to crackle with undimmed rage and grief, but her features remain unchanged. “And then, out of nowhere, my brother appears. Six years of silence, and he just casually walks into the room. Well, in a manner of speaking…”

“Force projection?” Mara asks quietly.

Leia nods. “I think so. We talked for a few moments; truthfully, I don’t even remember half of what was said. I was just so very grateful to see him. It felt like there was a sort of poetry to it - we came into this world together, and we would leave it, hand-in-hand. And then he walked out, with nothing but a lightsaber, to face down the First Order. No,” she shakes her head. “Not the First Order. To face _Ben_ . Not to defeat him, but to give us the chance to escape. Once we were clear, once we were on the _Falcon,_ he gave up. Rejoined the Force. It must have taken _everything_ Luke had to do that, and he did it for us. For the Resistance.”

“You felt it too, then?”

“He’s my brother, Mara,” Leia says simply. “It was the strangest feeling - I don’t think that I can describe it. It was like being torn apart but comforted at the same time. He was at peace.”

“He reached out for me too, in his last moments.” Mara’s voice is thicker than usual. “I think he was trying to say goodbye.”

Leia offers her a watery smile. “Despite all that passed between you, Mara, he _did_ love you.”

“And I loved him, Leia. Even if I wanted to strangle him most of the time too.” A memory plucked her, and she chuckles weakly. “You know, years ago, he was about to do something utterly stupid and reckless when we were breaking into - well, you don’t need to know the details - but anyway, I warned him that it was an embarrassing way to die. Do you know what the idiot said to me? ‘ _If I die, I trust you to elaborate on the story, and tell them I went down in a blaze of glory’._ Looks like he managed it pretty well on his own - that story, once it gets out, will echo all through the galaxy. It’ll be legend soon enough.”

A sudden clatter distracts them; Mara’s hand is already on the trigger of her blaster.

“Oh dear!” That kriffing gold protocol droid of Leia’s almost leaps at the sight of her, and the tea tray he is carrying slips from his grasp. Luckily, Mara has fast reflexes - she freezes it mid-air with the Force, which seems to startle the droid more. “Miss Mara Jade, how lovely to see you again, although it would be much more pleasant if you would kindly,” he waves a mechanical hand in her direction, “Lower your blaster.” 

She slips it back into the holster on her thigh, and lifts the tray and its contents from their hovering position. “Happy now, Threepio?”

“Quite Miss Jade, quite,” the droid says, giving a stiff bow before retreating.

Mara places the tray on Leia’s desk, and sets about pouring two cups of tea. “No cream or nectar?” she asks, then shakes her head. “Silly question - you’re probably a dozen light years from the nearest marketplace.”

By now, the sky has grown dark - dark enough to see the stars, for the nocturnal beasts and birds of the jungle to stir and sing. Mara resumes her cross-legged position, and takes a long, slow sip of the tea. 

“You know,” Leia says after a moment’s silence, “You still haven’t answered my question. Why are you _really_ here?”

Flippancy is easier than honesty, especially for one raised in the art of deception. But Mara tries to imbue even her sarcasm with the sincerity behind the words. “You know me, Leia. I’m a fighter - I always have been, I think. The few times I’ve been at leisure, I’ve been miserable. I want challenges, I crave them.” She gives a too-casual shrug, even as she feels Leia’s eyes burning into her. “Don’t push it - I think I’ve used up my quota of sentiment for the year. Besides, right now you are in desperate needs of allies. And while I can’t bring with me an army or even a fleet of X-wings, I can offer you myself and my skills. Just… don’t openly advertise it.” She chuckles darkly. “What’s what’s the point in having an Emperor’s Hand on your side if you’re going to flaunt it?”

“I won’t lie, your particular skill set would be… useful,” Leia begins, even as Mara can sense a growing tension within her. “But I need to know… Are you in control of yourself? I know you’ve struggled with your… darker influences, in the past.”

“Just because I never subscribed to the purity culture of the Jedi doesn’t mean I’m not in control.” She ignores the pricking at her conscience, reminding her of the blood still wet on her hands. “And just because I live a little more in the moral grey than Luke was comfortable with, doesn’t mean I side with the First Order. Especially not after what happened to the Hosnian system…”A shiver creeps up Mara’s spine, and the air feels suddenly cold. “I know there’s always been this seed of doubt in your mind-” she raises a hand to silence Leia before her lips have even formed the words, “No, don’t lie. You’re better than that. I know that I can never wipe away the stains of my past, of the things Palpatine made me do… but every day, I try. Not to fall back into old habits, into the shadow.” 

Even as she speaks, Mara feels the darkness snapping at her heels, that seductive whisper of how much _easier_ things would be if she simply succumbed… She swallows reflexively. “Redemption isn’t a single act, and for me, it’s been a three decades long process, one that won’t ever be over until the day the Force takes me. And yes, some days I let a little too much of the darkness back in…” She leans forward, and places her hands in Leia’s, feels the coolness of her skin. “But you don’t have anything to fear from me. Ever. I’ll plunge my own lightsaber into my chest before I go back to that woman I once was.” 

Leia nods. “I don’t doubt that for a single moment,” she says, although her lips twitch as though trying to disguise a frown. 

Mara feels something gently probing at her mind; she guards the memory of Skerris’ final moments, of how _right_ and justified she had felt in ending his life, and buries the nagging remorse snapping at her.

Then Leia’s demeanour melts into something more amicable. “Well, if you’re going to join the Resistance, you’ll need a less conspicuous ship.” 

And if her answering bark of laughter is too loud, a little too forced, Leia elects not to comment.

* * *

The two women talk long into the night - nearly twenty years of catch-up compressed into a few short hours.

It is almost dawn, when Mara raises the subject that has been pricking at her mind since the moment the _Jade’s Fire_ caught sight of Ajan Kloss. No, before that - since her conversation with Lando, and the strange, spiralling rumours she had been hearing en route to the Resistance Base.

“So, I hear you have a Jedi now?”

“In a manner of speaking. Her name is Rey,” Leia says, as if that single sentence is the answer to the thousand questions on the tip of Mara’s tongue. “I haven’t had my ear to the galactic scuttlebutt, but people know of her?”

“Rumours, little more. But I could sense her - sense her power - even before my ship broke atmo. It was… breathtaking, strength like I’ve never felt before. And you say that she has no formal training?”

Leia shook her head. “A few days with Luke, but nothing else. I suspect she’s been using the Force unconsciously for most of her life. She apparently bested my son in combat the first time she used a lightsaber.”

Mara laughs, something all too knowing in her smile. “Good - if she has none of that nonsense Jedi code drilled into her head, then we might actually stand a chance. When can I meet her?”

* * *

The girl Rey’s bunkmates, a communications lieutenant and an engineer, are positively shocked when their General appears in their tent and asks after their friend. The dark haired woman, the one Leia calls Rose, offers a few suggestions: the mess tent, the _Falcon,_ or even a clearing in the jungle where the girl likes to practice with her staff. 

Mara thinks for a moment, and turns to Leia. “Jungle sounds like a good place to start,” she says, and takes long, confident strides until the General is almost panting in her attempts to catch up with her.

It takes twenty minutes before Mara gets a firm hold on the girl’s Force signature, and wonders how she could have possibly missed it. She is almost blinding in her raw power and intensity, but Mara senses an undercurrent of something darker (like the gaping wound of grief, plastered over and hidden beneath her light) running through her.

It’s another fifteen minutes before they sight her among the trees. Leia opens her lips to call for the girl, but Mara places a hand on her shoulder to silence her.

In the stillness, she watches her.

The girl… Rey… swings a quarterstaff through the air in controlled strokes, each one smooth and slick. The moves aren’t traditional Jedi saber forms, but something else. The result of a lifetime fighting to defend herself, Mara suspects, and feels a pang within her. Rey lets out a little grunt as she spins around, and stops inches short of hitting her staff against the trunk of a broadleaf tree. 

A low whistle escapes Mara. “She has some impressive moves - I wouldn’t mind sparring with her. She must be brilliant with a lightsaber.”

“Ah, about that…”

Mara’s eyebrows rose as she listened. “She _broke_ your father’s lightsaber? Ha, I bet the old bastard is having a proper tantrum in the afterlife about that!” At Leia’s frown, Mara sobers. “Sorry, sensitive subject. Anyway,” she says with a vague gesticulation, “No lightsaber is a bit of an issue… You can’t face down these Empire-wannabes with nothing but a blaster and some attitude.”

“She was a scavenger in a previous life; she’s got an innate understanding of machines. Give her time and she’ll fix it.” 

The pride in Leia’s voice, warm and syrupy as she speaks of Rey, is almost _maternal_. Disquiet rumbles through Mara - and she wonders, just for a moment, if Leia is simply channelling the love for a child she considers forever lost to her into this girl. But she bites down on that thought.

“Time might not be on your side, Leia. Besides, I am assuredly _not_ allowing your precious beacon of hope to go into battle with a borrowed and once-broken lightsaber! A girl should have her own weapon - believe me, the difference is immense.”

“Didn’t you wield that lightsaber for a time?” Leia asks, a sly grin crossing her features. 

“All right, yes. But that just enhances my point - I outgrew it, built my own, and now I can’t imagine using any other. This Rey girl deserves the same chance.” Mara leans back against a tree, and continues to observe Rey for a moment more. “Now, Princess-General, I think it’s time for you to introduce me to our nascent Jedi.””

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muse this week: Johnny Cash’s Hurt.
> 
> Unfortunately, the plot has conspired to keep our star-crossed lovers apart for a few more chapters… As my muse stands, they won’t be colliding for another 1 - 2 chapters. Think of it as the Force giving them time to work through their individual issues?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey makes a new acquaintance, loses a fight, and faces some uncomfortable honesty from Mara Jade. Meanwhile, Kylo’s dreams take a slightly different turn…

Rey hisses as she massages the cramp from her right hand. Her brow glistens with sweat, and her heavy grey robes cling to her back. The heat of the jungle is cloying and sticky, so unlike the dryness of the desert. 

But these are not the sole sources of her discomfort.

For the last few minutes, Rey has had the strangest sensation of being watched.

She searches her mind for that familiar hum and prickle that is her supposedly quiescent Force bond with Kylo - but it has remained silent. Her relief, however, is tinged with something else. She clamps down on that emotion she refuses to name.

But, if not Kylo, then who  _ is  _ observing her?

She stills, and draws in a breath. An unfamiliar Force signature brushes against her own; one that is abuzz with curiosity, seeming to probe gently at her edges. Rey tries to shake off the feelings of self-consciousness washing over her and probes back. It feels like a shield being raised - she grasps is a brief filament of surprise before the other presence withdraws.

There is a beat, and the air is suddenly filled with the sound of clapping, loud as a crash of thunder. She tenses, and summons the quarterstaff back to her hands with the Force. Barely a heartbeat passes before she spins, turns to face the source of the sound, staff raised in a fighting stance.

The mysterious red-haired woman whose arrival last night had sparked chatter among the Resistance is currently leaning against a broadleaf tree at the edge of the clearing. Her arms are folded against her chest. Even in the heat of the jungle, she is dressed entirely in black leather, and a blaster rests lazily against her right thigh.

Rey can feel the scrutiny in her gaze; she reaches out cautiously with the Force and feels the stranger do the same. There is no threat from her, but there is something achingly familiar in her Force signature; a strange kaleidoscope of both Dark and Light, that reminds her too much of Ben - no, of Kylo, that causes Rey to lower her weapon. 

A smile crosses the woman’s lips - not quite  _ predatory,  _ but neither soft nor gentle. “It’s generally customary to shake hands first, you know. I’m guessing Skywalker didn’t give you any lessons on Force etiquette?”

Before Rey can form a retort, she spots General Leia lurking a few feet behind the stranger. She steps into the clearing, and shoots the woman a brief warning glance. “Rey, I’ve got someone I think you should meet.  _ Properly _ . This is Mara Jade. She is… an old friend of Luke’s.”

Rey feels a lap of annoyance radiate from the woman Leia calls Mara Jade. The Luke Skwaylker Rey knew (albeit for only a few days) the cantankerous, failed Jedi Master, did not seem the type to have friends - but then, Rey only ever knew him at his worst, a broken man filled with regret. A man who had vanquished one monster only to drive his own nephew into the arms of another. 

Mara uncrosses her arms, and begins to approach Rey. She extends a pale hand in greeting, and Rey shakes it tentatively. 

“I’ve heard much about you, Rey,” Mara says, her eyes roving over the younger woman as they break the handshake. Her grip had been firm, dominant. “Scavenger turned Jedi; scourge of the First Order; the woman who defeated the Jedi Killer and left him bleeding in the snow. Quite an impressive reputation, I must say.”

Waves of discomfort radiate from Leia, and she clears her throat. Mara pauses, and gives an apologetic shrug of her shoulders. 

“Whereas I know nothing about you,” Rey says slowly. “Except that you have the Force?”

A chuckle escapes her, and she winks. “As do you. Apologies for my earlier… intrusion. I just wanted to get a sense of you. It wasn’t meant to be an interrogation - although you pushed back well enough.”

For a moment, Rey loses the thread of conversation. Instead, her memories transport her back to another, more chilling interrogation, another presence probing and invading her thoughts, another battle for the scanity of her own mind. She can almost feel the heat of Kylo’s breath on her brow, hear the creak of his leather gloves, before she pulls herself back to the present.

Even though Mara Jade’s tone is friendly, Rey can still feel her gaze roving over her; like a scavenger picking over old tech to determine its value. Blood rushes to her cheeks, and she resists the urge to look away. 

At her defiant stare, Mara’s smile becomes softer. “I think she and I are going to be friends,” she says to Leia. Then, her focus snaps back to Rey. “I was admiring your staff work earlier - not a weapon I normally use, but you seem fairly proficient in it. You have a sparring partner?” Rey blinks, and shakes her head. “Want one?”

“Mara…” Leia’s tone carries a definite warning. 

But the object of her ire merely waves a hand in Rey’s direction. “Training against trees is fine and well, Leia. Practice droids would be better - I might have one on my ship, come to think of it, although it is probably in need of some minor repairs… But that’s beside the point. If you’re going to wield a staff - or even a saber - then a sparring partner is  _ essential. _ You need to be able to block as well as strike, and unless the trees here have some hitherto unknown magical quality….” She trails off, and her eyes meet Rey’s. “So, kid… Would you like a sparring partner?”

“Mara Jade, I did  _ not  _ bring you here to fight her!” There is a ferocity in Leia’s tone which takes Rey by surprise. The general has always seemed a picture of calm in a crisis. Rey had almost imagined her to not have a temper. But now, with a muscle twitching in her cheeks and redness creeping over her neck, she is the mirror of her twin brother in one of his rages. 

Another, more uncomfortable comparison with her son also springs to mind… but Rey brushes that aside.

Instead, she reaches over and skim’s her fingers over the general’s clothed arm. “It’s all right, Leia,” Rey says as she withdraws her touch, and squirms a little at the idea of being so forward. “I was actually going to ask Finn if he wanted to practice with me later.” Her gaze shifts to Mara Jade. “But if you were willing…?”

“Gladly,” Mara says. She places a placating hand on Leia’s shoulder. “If it makes you feel more comfortable, you can have my blaster. You have my uneqivical consent to shoot me in the back if I cross any lines.”

A snort escapes Leia. “Like you probably can’t stop a blastershot in mid-air anyway,” she says, and her words kindle a strange curiosity in Rey. “But yes, I will  _ intervene  _ if I deem it necessary.”

Mara dips her waist and blows low before Leia - low enough that her flame-coloured hair kisses the ground. “As you wish, Princess.” Her tone is cheeky and light, and she even  _ winks _ at Leia, much to the General’s mixed amusement and chagrin.

A nervous anticipation fills Rey. Though her days (when not helping Rose and the other remaining mechanics) have been filled with seemingly endless hours of training, a broadleaf tree would always be a poor opponent. She could strike and swing her quarterstaff from sunrise until dusk - or at least until her muscles protested - but she needed a challenge. 

Fighting had been a necessity on Jakku. A young girl was seen as easy prey to steal rations or scavenged parts from - and that was one of the more honourable reasons she might be targeted… So she had taught herself to strike out, defend herself with staff and teeth and nails until few dared approach her. She would not allow them to see her as a victim.

She had fought Kylo Ren as his adversary - although, on reflection, he was already wounded and bleeding out in the snow when their sabers first clashed, and she begrudgingly had to credit his disadvantage with her victory rather than an excess of her own skills. She had fought with Kylo as an ally when they had taken down Snoke’s Praetorian guard, and for one glorious moment, she believed they would never strike out at each other in anger again. That Ben Solo would come back with her into the Light.

A foolish hope.

Likely her next duel would be against him once more. Whilst she could compensate against his bulk with her own agility with her own agility and a lifetime of scrapes, he had a decade of far superior training than her. 

Rey would have to learn to fight properly. And if this woman knew Luke, had perhaps even trained with him in glory days, then perhaps she alone had the knowledge to bestow some proper teaching on Rey.

If only she still had a lightsaber…

Mara divests herself of her leather jacket. Beneath it, her arms are pale and muscle, and riddled with a litany of faded scars. Already, a thin sheen of sheet glistens on her skin.

But it is her belt that draws Rey’s eyes.

Specifically, the silver casing of a lightsaber attached to a notch on the belt.

Her fingers twitch for the familiar weight of her own saber, still lying in pieces beneath her pillow. 

Mara has lain down her jacket on the grass, and removed the blaster from its holster. She drops to her knees before Leia, and passes the weapon to her with mock reverence - enough to cause Leia’s lips to twitch into a smile, even as she rolls her eyes. Then, she unclips her lightsaber and places it on the arm of her jacket.

Finally, she reaches behind her back, hand sneaking below the waistband of her leather trousers and pulling out a small baton. With a flick of her wrist, it elongates until it is almost the same size as Rey’s own quarterstaff.

Leia raises an eyebrow. “Exactly _how_ many weapons do you carry on your person, Mara?”

“Enough to keep me alive,” comes the retort. “Plus an extra vibroblade, just for emergencies.” 

Rey cannot help the snicker that escapes her. Leia’s response is to roll her eyes.

“Anyway, enough with the idle chit-chat,” Mara says, stepping close to Rey. Her feet part, and she raises her baton. “First touch?” At Rey’s answering nod, she draws in a breath. “Then we begin.”

Rey grasps her staff with both hands, and launches herself at her opponent; only to hear the echoing clatter of their weapons colliding. She steps back, and tries again. But Mara parries the blow, almost lazily. Her arms barely seem to have moved.

Three more times Rey repeats the manoeuvre. Every time, Mara blocks, but makes no offensive moves against her. Every enthusiastic swing and blow of Rey’s staff is met with polite disinterest, as though Mara is swatting at a fly instead of battling the fabled last Jedi.

Exasperation bubbles within Rey. This woman, this stranger, has the audacity to challenge her to a sparring match, and then treat the whole matter with such ennui? Her breath escapes her in short pants. Perspiration gathers on her brow, and a single droplet trickles into her eye. She leaps forward with a feral cry, swinging her quarterstaff low to aim for Mara’s knees.

This time, Mara actually moves, lowering her staff to block the attack. A sinister smile plays on her lips, and she rocks back. 

Before Rey can raise her staff, she feels a smarting pain in her shins as the baton hits them with enough force to knock her to the ground. She grimaces in pain.

What exactly happened next, Rey could not recall hours later when she played the fight over in her mind. Mara twisted her baton, and suddenly Rey’s staff was propelled out of her grasp, landing somewhere in the clearing with a thud. She felt the dull press of the baton against his chest; not enough to bruise but painful. Mara towered over her, her triumphant form casting Rey into her shadow.

“First touch,” Mara says, before she lowers her baton with one hand, extending the other to Rey and pulling her up. “And second as well, I suppose.”

Something in Rey wants to rage at her. Humiliation, at being defeated in front of Leia. Annoyance at being bested by an opponent whose fighting style ventured on the lethargic. Instead, she brushes the dirt from her backside, and fixes Mara Jade with a glare. 

“So you’re an offensive fighter,” Mara says, rubbing the back of her hand against her own brow, now damp with perspiration. “Good style - it needs some refinement, but at least I know what I’m working with.”

It takes a moment for the meaning behind her words to sink in.

“Are you offering to… teach me?” Rey asks hesitantly. Though she had been no stranger to pain in her life, she is unsure her aching legs will withstand long-term training with Mara Jade if this is her favoured tuition style. 

The older woman shakes her head. “You mean, am I going to take you on as my Padawan and instruct you in the ways of the Force as a wise Jedi master? Of course not - if I even tried, the Jedi masters of old would materialise here in this clearing to try and dissuade me. Besides, Rey, from what I could sense from you earlier, you are  _ exceptionally _ powerful. Less than a month after discovering you have the Force, you levitated a landslide worth of rocks! Most Jedi take years to accrue even half of that power.” She smiles in a manner that might be called fond. “I doubt you need much in the way of instruction - a little refinement, maybe. If you want it, that is?”

Rey sucks in a breath. She remembers another offer, in the midst of a fight for her very life on an imploding planet. 

_ You need a teacher. I can show you the ways of the Force,  _ Kylo’s voice purrs in her memory.

Luke Skywalker had no interest in teaching her. Not to fight, at least. Regret and isolation had turned him into a philosopher in his dotage. His lessons (once he had  _ eventually  _ deigned to bestow them) would be of zero assistance in a battle to the death.

Her eyes drift to Leia, still standing at the edge of the treeline and watching the proceedings. Eagerness, hope, fear, all war within the General’s gaze. Rey notes that her finger is still resting on the trigger of Mara’s borrowed blaster. Although the greeting these two women had shared after Mara’s arrival seemed last night genial enough, theirs was obviously a more complex relationship than first appearances had suggested. Curiosity piqued in Rey to understand more. 

A beat passes, and she remembers that she has not yet answered Mara’s offer. As if sensing her thoughts, Mara gives a subtle flick of her wrist, and the lightsaber flies into her open grasp. She looks at the weapon for a moment before igniting it.

The blade is a rich purple; it illuminates the lines at the corner of Mara’s green eyes. Her pale skin looks almost luminous under the glow.

Rey can sense the tension in Leia, wound tight enough to snap.

Mara immediately extinguishes her saber, and holds out the casing to Rey. “I’ve seen you practice with a staff,” she says, and there is a hunger in her eyes, “Want to show me what you can do with a lightsaber?”

Her fingers itch to hold a saber again. The kyber crystal within seems to whisper to her, much as the cracked one in her own saber had done. But this is quieter, almost tentative. The casing is cool against her fingers as she accepts the blade from Mara. There is a thrum in the force, but not the rightness she associates with her own weapon. Something alien, and yet so natural about it. 

“Kyber crystals have personalities of their own,” Mara says, her voice barely audible over the sounds of the jungle. “A crystal bonds to its wielder; although there are some which may listen to another master. I’ve told mine that you are a friend - it should obey you.” She places her fingers over Rey’s, and the lightsaber seems to vibrate. 

Rey nods, holds the hilt aloft, and ignites it.

This weapon feels… heavier?... than her own. She tests it with a few experimental swings, feeling two sets of eyes burning into her with every motion. She moves it in an arc above her head, a dance of meaningless motions. Each moment is a touch more cumbersome than with her former lightsaber, or even with her staff. After a few moments, Rey gets the baffling notion that the weapon is  _ disagreeing  _ with some of her actions. The casing is beginning to warm - not unpleasantly - in a way she had not experienced with her old lightsaber. 

Rey lowers the lightsaber, and allows it to fall dark once again. “Thank you,” she says to Mara, before extending it out to her. Unlike with Skywalker, she tells herself, at least this one won’t be tossed away like a piece of debris.

Yet, Mara surprises her by shaking her head. “Keep hold of it for now.” At Rey’s widened eyes, she adds, “At least until you have your own again. I’ve got plenty of weapons at my disposal.” Her voice becomes clipped, although her eyes dazzle with mirth. “In exchange, I expect full dedication to your studies. We train every morning at dawn,” her gaze suddenly flickers in Leia’s direction, “That is, if the General is willing to, ah… adjust the duty roster if necessary?” At Leia’s answering nod, Mara continues, “It will be hard work; it will be both physically and mentally exhausting, but then again, I suspect there wasn’t much time for leisure in your scavenger days?”

Rey’s hesitance is palpable, but Mara Jade seems nonplussed. She remembers how desperately she had sought Skywalker’s approval, and the crushing disappointment of his disregard. 

But this stranger is not Luke Skywalker.

Rey nods. “Dawn it is then.” She takes the borrowed lightsaber, and clips it to her own belt. Its weight brushes against her thigh. There is not the humming rightness of the Force she imagined, but it is a security nonetheless.

“Good - now, I think your efforts deserve a reward.” Mara tells her. “You drink caf?” Rey nods. “Excellent. I find it's also a great way to make new friends - and I would like to get to know you better before I thrash you again in sparring tomorrow.”

Rey’s response is half-laugh, half-exasperation. She suspects sparring with Mara will also involve trading verbal blows; but she feels strangely  _ comfortable _ with her, in the same way she had felt on first meeting Leia. 

A few further pleasantries are exchanged, before Leia disappears off into the jungle. Rey can sense a wave of pride washing over her, originating from the General. It fills her with a warmth and happiness that breaks through onto her face.

* * *

As soon as she steps onto the Jade’s Fire, Rey thinks she might be looking at  _ luxury _ for the first time in her life.

The panels are gleaming in a way that only seems to accentuate the griminess of the  _ Falcon.  _ It feels wrong to even the surfaces, lest she stain them. The flooring is soft, and Rey slips off her dust-covered boots and leaves them beside the ramp. Tentatively, she rubs her toes against the floor - it tickles, and she imagines letting her feet burrow into the velvety softness. 

None of the lighting overhead flickers; every point switches on when Mara clicks her fingers. 

Even the air is fresh; Rey had never realised air could grow stale until those ten cramped and crowded days on the  _ Falcon. _

Mara guides her to the galley - it is almost as large as the living quarters of the  _ Falcon  _ (and she needs to stop comparing the two vessels, as she is sure the latter’s interface can sense betrayal and will become even more temperamental next time she attempts to fly in it), and each surface is polished to a mirror-like sheen. 

The  _ Jade’s Fire  _ feels like the most opulent vessel in the galaxy. 

“You like her?” Mara asks, humming as she fills the caf machine with clear, fresh water. “The ship, I mean?” 

“She’s breath-taking.”

“Thanks. I… acquired her about twenty years ago. A reward of sorts. She’s primarily a leisure vessel, but I made some necessary modifications for my line of work.” She passes Rey a mug (one without cracks or chips on its rim), and the scent of caf fills her lungs. At least, she thinks the black liquid within is caf - the aroma is deeper, richer than that she has been drinking in the last weeks on the  _ Falcon.  _ Rose had made a face the first time they shared a drink, and commented that its taste more resembled gasoline than caf.

Rey sips her mug. This definitely does not taste of gasoline. She wonders if she might actually be developing a palate and preferences for food and drink, a notion which startles her almost as much as the revelations and life-changing events of the last month. Preferences are for those who have; her life before has been a struggle to even satisfy  _ need _ without having to consider  _ wants  _ or  _ desires. _

The two women drink their caf in silence, punctuated only by Mara drumming her fingers upon the tabletop. “So, Rey of Jakku,” she says once the dregs of both mugs have been drained. “Who are you?”

A moment’s contemplation is needed before Rey can answer. “An orphan nobody.” The words have no sting; instead, she feels a pride at her pact with Finn. Heroes fall. For an orphan, the only way is up.

Mara snorts. “That may be who you were. But that isn’t who you are. Or who you will become. How old are you?”

“I’m… not sure,” she replies. She has a vague recollection of how markings lined the walls of her AT-AT home. “Around twenty, I think.” Her spine stiffens a little as she waits for Mara to seek some elaboration on  _ why _ her new protege does not even know her own age. 

Instead, she watches Mara lean back in her chair. “So young,” she murmurs. “Far too young to have such a burden on your shoulders.” She lifts a hand to her mouth, and begins to chew on her thumbnail. 

They fall silent once again, only this one is much less companionable than earlier. Rey’s fingers twitch, and she nestles her now empty mug simply for something to do.

A few minutes pass before Rey clears her throat. “You said you’d heard about me. Did you just mean from the General, or…?”

“A little of both,” Mara admits. “I’ve been hearing rumours in cantinas and spaceports since Crait - mostly about Luke, to be honest, and his quote-unquote ‘glorious sacrifice’.” She pulls a face as though she has swallowed something bitter. “But apparently the weak and helpless need not fear, for his final student, the last of the Jedi, is gearing up to take down Kylo Ren and the First Order.” Mara leans over, and places a hand over Rey’s. 

It was like the rumours she had heard spoken about herself on the base. It was bad enough to face two dozen weary and brow-beaten rebels looking at her as though you were the answer to their prayers. Knowing that there were already millions, if not  _ billions _ , holding her a similar pedestal was inconceivable. An ache blooms at her temple, and she yanks her hands away from Mara’s grasp and buries her face in her palms.

When Mara speaks again, her voice is soft. “He probably wouldn’t thank me for telling you this… But Luke struggled too. All he ever wanted was to become a pilot and escape Tatooine. Instead, he found himself, not much older than you are now, facing a legacy he never wanted; the expectation of the entire galaxy that he would restore the Jedi Order to new glories, et cetra." She stands, and begins to pace slowly around the room. There is an appreciation in her movements, like an animal prowling in its cafe. She rubs a hand on the back of her neck, and huffs a sigh.

“Don’t tell Leia that I said this to you…” she says, “But you aren’t obligated to save the galaxy.”

The words crash over Rey like a wave battering the shore. “What?”

“Being the mythical hero destined to save the galaxy from tyranny is a phenomenal burden to carry. Even if you think you’re strong enough to bear it, it will eventually break you. I think,” she says, returning to her chair and leaning her elbows on her crossed legs, “I think that was what went wrong with Luke. The person he became - that slavish, almost fantastical devotion to the Jedi code of old - grew out of the mould he was forced into. The last Jedi, the first of a new generation. It broke him in the end, although I don't think he realised quite how much. You're so very young - like he was - you shouldn't have the fate of the galaxy on your shoulders. I don't think anyone would truly blame you if you told the galaxy to Kriff off."

Rey considers Mara's words for a moment, feeling a growing unease. "I can't just sit back and watch the galaxy burn," she says with conviction. A sigh escapes her, and she shakes her head. "I can't stand seeing injustice and suffering - I've been on the receiving end of that enough." A mirthless chuckle escapes her. "That's how I ended up here in the first place."

"Oh?" Mara lifts an eyebrow, and gestures for her to continue. 

"Would you believe that this all started when I rescued a droid from another scavenger?"

Mara puffs out her cheeks.“Of course, there’s always a kriffing droid involved.”

The Force seems to crackle with the tension in the air. Too many uncomfortable thoughts fill Rey’s mind. She pushes them back down and instead grasps for a change of topic. “How did you meet Luke?” 

“Ah.” Mara suddenly becomes fascinated with the ends of her red hair, and begins to card her fingers through them. She exhales sharply. “What’s the scuttlebutt about me on base?”

The arrival of a stranger on a bizarre vessel, a stranger embraced by their normally stoic general would of course generate plenty of rumours. Not that Rey had listened to them in the mess tent, but Kaydel and Rose had been whispering last night when they thought their bunk-mate was asleep. Was this stranger a rich benefactor coming to fund the Resistance? The mistress of a First Order general seeking the Resistance’s protection? Or a visiting dignitary come to forge an alliance with the General?

“Not much, really,” Rey says, and she knows Mara can hear the lie in her voice. 

“Well, I suspect the truth is much more scandalous and interesting than anything you have or haven’t heard.” Her hands fall away from her hair, and she almost seems to deflate. “I’m going to be honest with you, Rey. Perhaps I ought to have been at the start.” There is a sharp intake of breath before she continues. “When I was your age, I was in the employ of the Emperor himself.”

Rey blinks, and takes a moment to process the words. Leia’s ambivalent reaction to Mara’s offer of teaching suddenly makes sense. As does that vein of darkness she had sensed in Mara’s Force signature when they first encountered one another. A woman who had once walked the path of the Sith - yet, Rey wonders, how in the galaxy had she ended up here, on the side of the Resistance?

"You... worked for the Emperor?"

Mara nods. “I was one of the Emperor’s Hands. A lofty term - one I regret to admit that I was proud of. Much nicer than admitting the truth. I was an assassin. More subtle than Vader, but no less dangerous.” She grimaces. 

“But how…” A million questions sit on the tip of Rey’s tongue. “How did you go from Emperor’s Hand to becoming a Jedi?”

The sound that escapes Mara is almost a cackle. “Simple - I didn’t. I am no Jedi - at least, not in the same sense as Master Skywalker _. _ I don’t wake at dawn and chant that bantha fodder that passes as a Jedi code; and I  _ definitely _ don’t subscribe to their monastic lifestyle.”

“But you do have a lightsaber,” Rey points out, her mind abuzz as she tries to process her thoughts. Her headache only seems to grow, but she elects to ignore it for now.

“So did Darth Vader, and so does Kylo Ren,” she replies tersely. “The Jedi don’t have a monopoly on lightsabers.” She clicks her tongue on the roof of her mouth before she continues. “When I first met Luke Skywalker, I was under a compulsion to kill him. You have to understand, I was  _ devoted  _ to the Emperor - he was my master, my mentor, and tragically, the closest thing I had to a father-figure. I believed that Luke killed him, and this drove me  _ insane  _ with vengeance. When we first came face to face with him, I tried to run him through with my lightsaber. Generally not a good sign for a lasting relationship. But, instead of striking back at me, he made a harder choice. He tried to understand me, and he  _ accepted _ me, as no one else had done before.”

Unbidden, the image of a younger Mara Jade sparring with Skywalker (and knocking him to the dirt) springs to mind, and Rey has to raise a hand to her mouth to hide a smirk. “And you became… friends?” 

The wistfulness of Mara’s tone had already spoken volumes about the real nature of her relationship with Luke Skywalker. She had clearly loved him at one point. Whether that affection had faded, or soured, Rey could not guess. But, given the magnitude of the secret she herself was keeping, she did not press for more details. 

Mara nods. “Eventually - it took a few years though. I had a lot of things to work out. My whole life, I’d been groomed by the Emperor to be his perfect weapon. Oh, and what a weapon I once was.” She tears her gaze away from Rey, and begins to rub at a non-existent smudge on the table with her sleeve. “There was a lot of blood on my hands. But Luke had faith in me, and I’ve been seeking atonement for my sins ever since.”

Bile rises in Rey’s throat. So the man who had found the humanity in Darth Vader, who had forgiven and tried to rehabilitate an Emperor’s assassin was willing to condemn his own nephew to death on the basis of dark thoughts alone? 

_ Some sins can’t be forgiven,  _ Rey thinks. Like killing a loving father to gain the approval of a monster. Or raising a lightsaber in anger and pushing your nephew to the dark side.

Mara frowns, and Rey realises too late that she has spoken the words aloud. “Didn’t Skywalker ever tell you that only a Sith deals in absolutes?”

Rey allows that thought to settle before speaking again. “That sounds suspiciously like an absolute in itself…”

Mara laughs, although it is more strained than her earlier attempts. “Congratulations, Rey. In one sentence, you have summed up the paradox and hypocrisy of both the Jedi and the Sith. Absolutes are dangerous. The Force, it was never meant to be an eternal battle between Light and Dark. The Force is simply… the Force. Not everything in morality, or in life, is as simple as black and white. Most of life is shades of grey, balancing. As I am sure you understand well. That is how I use the Force: in the balance, in the grey.”

Rey nods. “Master Skywalker said something similar.”

An incredulous look passes over Mara’s face, and her jaw hangs slack for a moment. She clears her throat. “You know, we used to argue that very point,” she says. Her voice has grown thick, as though she is struggling to articulate. “I’m glad that he  _ eventually _ understood that. If only he had done so sooner…” She clears her throat, and busies herself collecting her and Rey’s used mugs. 

_ Then maybe Ben Solo wouldn’t have fallen. _

This time, Rey is careful to not let the words slip from her mouth, but they hang heavily in the air nonetheless.

“You know,” Mara says once she has returned to the table again, “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to rethink my offer of teaching. But I hope you don’t.”

“I’ll sleep on it,” Rey tells her, and there is no guile to her words. She reaches for her belt to unclip the borrowed saber, but Mara raises a hand.

“As I said, keep hold of it, for now. It was an honest gesture. Besides,” she adds, trying to inject some sense of levity back into the room. “Think of it as a bribe not to ruin my reputation  _ quite _ yet with your friends.”

* * *

By fleet-time, it is already the early hours of the morning before Kylo Ren drags himself to bed. There had been an excess of tedious duties today; the three hours training and obliterating another gaggle of seeker droids had been a necessary release of tension afterwards. His left arm still smarts when a stray blaster bolt had caught him, but a visit to the medbay later, and all evidence would be gone by morning.

He had even tried reading a holobook - some dry political treatise that only the most devoted scholar would even attempt - before his eyes began to droop.

Skywalker had evidently chosen to take a vacation from his spectral torment of his nephew; a fact for which Kylo was eternally grateful.

He almost moans from the sensation as his head hits the pillow. Sleep is quick to welcome into its embrace. His limbs grow loose and relaxed, and his final waking thought is a hope for a dreamless repose.

Instead, he opens his eyes to a strangely vivid. It feels familiar - like a memory. The edges are fuzzy, and time seems to stutter, like a holomovie skipping when the file has become degraded.

He stands in a long room; it is dark, except for a pale slither of light coming from a window high on the farthest wall. The ceiling is as tall as a mountain. As his eyes adjust to the dimness, he drinks in his surroundings.

Floors thick with an inch of dust. Shelves half-toppled, with piles of torn and filthy books - real, parchment books - littering the ground. Even the window above is covered in a decade’s worth of grime. He is amazed any light could even penetrate its thickness.

Yet, the room seems to thrum with the Force. He wonders for a moment if it is built on vergance, before he finally recognises his location.

The old Jedi Archives on Coruscant. Well, what remained of them. Kylo raises a hand to his face, and groans. More details of the room come into focus. Smashed data terminals, from when the Jedi had purged their sacred information rather than risk it failing into Darth Sidious’ hands. Books lying against the floor, half open, their spines split, and pages torn.

A chill seems to descend - in his half-rested state, Kylo almost imagines the spectre of the Emperor himself to be wandering, sucking all life out of the room. 

For a moment, he racks his memories, trying to place exactly  _ when _ he came here, when a voice echoes in the chamber. 

“Stay close, Ben.”

That voice… Luke’s voice. But not the gruff tones of the man who tried to slaughter his nephew in his bed; instead, the whine of youth. Then, Skywalker comes into view. He looks so young that Kylo almost has to stifle a gasp. Skywalker has sand-coloured hair, with only the merest whisper of silver at his temples. The merest scruff of a beard covers his chin. In his glistening white robes, he looks every inch the conquering hero of the Rebellion propaganda of old.

A small boy with riotous black hair that barely covers his oversized ears follows close behind, chattering eagerly. Ben Solo - no more than six years old. The child who grows up to subjugate the galaxy, currently trundling behind his uncle, and gazing at him with awe and reverence. 

The sight of his child-self is like a punch to the gut. A tempest of emotions crash over Kylo. Eagerness, fascination, excitement. The wide-eyed wonder of a child he could not remember being. A sense that  _ anything _ he could possibly want to learn about the galaxy, about the secrets of the Force that sang in his blood, could be found here. To Ben Solo, this was paradise.

To Kylo Ren, this dream is simply another torment.

Then, he becomes aware of a third presence as it approaches Skywalker. A woman with red hair falling in curls almost to her waist, her black garb a stark contrast to Skywalker's luminous white. She stands half in the shadow, and though she seems achingly familiar, he cannot place her face nor even recall her name.

“It's only a bakery, Farm Boy.” Her voice is sharp, teasing. “I'm not dragging him to a gambling den in the back of a cantina. Besides, he's almost certainly been to far worse places with Han.”

Skywalker’s voice is distorted, and Kylo cannot hear the words. But the woman’s face splits into a triumphant grin. She approaches young Ben, currently sifting through a pile of damaged tomes. “Are you hungry?” she asks him. At his answering nod, she offers her hand to him, and he reaches for it eagerly. “Come on then, Solo. Last one there pays!”

The scene shifts with nauseating speed, and then Ben and the woman are sitting at a table in what Kylo assumes is a high-end bakery, with humanoid waiters instead of droids and actual tablecloths. The air is thick with the scent of spices and nectar, and Kylo can almost taste it.

There is a glint of silver on the table. He blinks when he realises that the woman has placed a blaster in the centre. Her eyes are small, and continuously darting around the room, even as she manages to make the small boy in front of her feel like he is the centre of her attention.

Ben’s feet barely graze the floor as he swings them back and forth playfully. He reaches surreptitiously for a small, sticky cake and tries to shove it into his mouth whole, chewing in a most un-princely manner. There is a streak of nectar over his cheek, and he rubs at it whilst the woman looks at him in bemusement. 

“These are the best spiced cakes on Coruscant,” she tells his child-self. She pushes another of the confections into his hands. “Just don't let Uncle Stiff-Shirt know how many I let you eat.” She winks conspiratorially, and young Ben giggles.

The domesticity of the scene is almost painful.

When the buzzing of his chronometer rips him into the waking world, Kylo has never been more relieved to see a dream end.

He sits up with a groan, and rubs his stubbled chin.

A snuffling sound to his side causes him to stiffen, but there is no danger in the Force. He shifts, and his gaze falls upon Rey, curled up and asleep, in his bed.

He would groan again, only he fears waking her. Instead, he shuffles back beneath the bedsheets, and simply  _ looks _ at her.

She is dressed in a loose shift the colour of sand. In the night, her braid has become mussed, and stray hairs poke out at every level. Her lips are cracked, and her breath is stale - but then again, he thinks as he licks his lips, so is his own. Her hair smells of flowers and some awful Resistance-issue shampoo.  The heat of her body is like a furnace, and he risks inching closer to feel it. 

Close enough to see the flickering behind closed eyelids. Close enough to count the freckles on her nose and cheeks. Close enough to kiss her… 

The thought disgusts him. Not the action - his blood pulses with the longing to feel her lips against his - but the mere idea of stealing a kiss from her whilst she slept. It feels… indecent. Enough for him to pull away from her, even as every nerve ending screams out in protest. 

He retreats to the ‘fresher; by the time he has returned, clean-shaven with damp hair and fresh breath, she has faded.

Disappointment and relief are becoming frequent bedfellows for Kylo Ren. Even though his comm-link buzzes, and his datapad is emitting a cacophony of beeps demanding the Supreme Leader’s attention, he takes a moment to sink back against the sheets. As they grow rapidly colder, he knows this is a poor facsimile of her embrace.

But, if it is all he can have and maintain his sanity and dignity, it will have to do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muse this week (no pun intended): Absolution by Muse.
> 
> This was supposed to be a short chapter. Oops...
> 
> Thank you again to those reading and commenting/leaving kudos. It is always a delight to see an AO3 notification in my inbox. 
> 
> Chapter 9 (in its current iteration) is going to be very light on Ben and Rey. In writing Kintsugi, I'm trying to correct a lot of what I saw as wrong with TROS (primarily, the sacrifice of literally everyone's character arcs/development at the altar of nostalgia). A few other characters were in need of much meatier storylines, which I hope I can address in a satisfying manner. So, if you can bear with me for another chapter... I promise we'll have a dyad reunion to look forward to!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poe Dameron finally gets back in the cockpit; and the Resistance finds a new ally on Corellia. Alas, fate has another indignity in store for the self-proclaimed Best Pilot in the Resistance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content warning:** Violence (but canon-typical); discussions of chronic illness; and putting others in danger because of personal exceptionalism.
> 
> I’ve written a plot point in this chapter which is a personal trigger; I’ve tried to tag it as best I could without totally giving the game away… But if you feel that I didn’t tag it correctly and were upset, please (a) accept my profoundest apology for any distress I caused you; and (b) let me know if you can think of a more appropriate tag and I’ll update accordingly.

Once upon a time, Poe Dameron’s first commander had declared that, in war, the time spent out of the cockpit was as vital to victory as the time spent in the air.

Poe had never agreed with that sentiment. 

His fingers itch for the controls of an X-Wing, the thrill of flight, of  _ doing. _ These last weeks have been excruciating for him. Introspection has never been his strength, and with too much time to think in hyperspace, in those ten days on the  _ Falcon _ with the solemn, frightened survivors of the First Order’s assault on the Resistance… He closes his eyes. Failure, regret, impotence, all bubble through him. 

The days are easy. He can chat with the others; assist in whatever piecemeal way he can, from carting supplies across the base to lending a hand to Rose and Rey in their salvaging efforts. The small fleet of disused X-wings would have been obsolete when his parents were pilots - they are positively ancient now, like sticks and stones against a star destroyer. But as he follows the instructions of the two women, he can at least distract himself. 

Or he can whittle away a few hours helping Finn work through the ever-growing roster of mess duties after another ill-fated sabaac game. Although Poe’s endless grumbling of “We used to have servitor droids for this!” only earns him a chuckle from Finn.

No, it is the nights when Poe truly suffers.

In the quiet of darkness (well, semi-quiet; Wexley snores louder than a rathtar with a head cold), Poe has only the parade of thoughts running through his mind.

His skin still remembers the smart of Leia’s slap after his failed mutiny. Amilyn Holdo’s eyes still burn into him even as he tries to sleep. And, when he is at his most exhausted, those paralysing moments trapped on a starship as the First Order’s ion cannons picked them off, unable to do anything but  _ watch _ the last of the Resistance burn… He almost seeks out Dr Kalonia for some SleepTabs to quell his late-night ruminations.

But  _ now _ , he has a mission. Something simple, straightforward, but something to  _ do _ . 

BB-8 inclines his head at Poe as they make their way towards the mess tent in the early morning light.  _ "Do you think they will be alright without us?" _ The droid chirps as he brushes against Poe’s leg.

"Course they will, buddy," he says, even as his gut contorts. So very few of them remain… The idea of leaving them without even the  _ Falcon _ as a means of escape fills him with unease. 

The other pilots and Chewbacca are already gathered in the mess. Poe takes a seat beside Nien Nub, and gratefully accepts a mug of cooling caf. It is bitter but enough to invigorate him for the day ahead. As he begins to pick over what looks like reheated leftovers from the previous evening’s meal, the entrance flap lifts, and General Organa steps into the mess.

Poe has already memorised the details of their mission; the very notion of returning to the cockpit leaves him almost feverish with excitement. Not enough to silence the recriminations playing in his mind, but enough to drown out their volume. Nonetheless, he feels soothed as he listens to her recount the plan just one more time.

That is, until the pilots begin to make their way towards the  _ Falcon, _ and she asks him to remain behind.

Leia’s eyes are stern. “No funny business,” she tells him. “I would rather lose those X-wings than lose an- than lose a single pilot.” 

Her unsaid “another” does not go unnoticed by Poe.

He stands beneath the ramp of the  _ Falcon,  _ and watches her pull  Chewbacca  into a hug (the Wookie has to stoop to wrap his giant arms around her diminutive frame). An exchange of whispers passes between the two. The briefest glance they shoot in his direction gives him sufficient idea of what has been said.

Poe rubs a hand over the back of his neck. That familiar sickening feeling unfurls in his gut. Had that mission over D’Qar been worth it? A moral victory over Hux, yes. The brilliant satisfaction of blowing up a dreadnought with far inferior resources - most definitely. 

What had followed, however...

Poe had been a soldier, a pilot - there was always the implicit understanding that any mission might be his last. He had undertaken the Jakku mission, and that had ended with him in the clutches of Kylo  _ kriffing _ Ren, captured and tortured - and thank the Force for Finn’s help in breaking him out; dragging himself from the mangled wreckage of that downed TIE fighter, and nearly dying of dehydration in the desert. It was only through luck and skill (and probably more of the former and less of the latter than he was willing to admit to) that had kept him alive.

A small cohort have gathered to wish them good luck. Finn draws Poe into a hug, and murmurs in his ear not to do anything stupid. A lacklustre smile is all Poe can muster in response.

Rose and Kaydel’s hugs are quick and perfunctory; Rey extends a tentative handshake to him, and says, “May the Force be with you.” The words sound alien on her lips, and he wonders, just for a moment, if she is entirely at ease with the position fate has pushed her into.

“Keep everyone safe,” he tells her, squeezing her hand in both of his. There is a determination in her eyes even if the tremor of her grasp betrays a nervousness underneath.

Her goodbye to BB-8 is more affectionate - she drops to her knees to lay her brow against the droid’s domed head. A happy chorus of beeps escapes him, and she spends a final moment adjusting his antennae again.

* * *

When Poe and BB-8 enter the cockpit,  Chewbacca  has already positioned himself in the pilot's seat. 

Young Poe Dameron would have loved the chance to sit in the cockpit of the  _ Millennium Falcon _ . Listen to the great Han Solo share his outrageous tales of adventure, pull off impressive stunts and last second escapes. Maybe even persuade the old hero to allow him a shot in the pilot’s seat.

A scoff escapes him - he doubted Solo would  _ ever _ permit anyone else to handle the controls of his beloved vessel. Chewbacca clearly intends to uphold that sentiment with equal vigour.

Well, not  _ quite. _ In the aftermath of the Crait evacuation, Poe had on occasion caught General Leia in the pilot’s chair. Which made sense, he supposed - both that she was their leader, and as the  _ Falcon  _ had belonged to her late husband.

Although Poe had noted, with the merest touch of envy, Chewbacca had also allowed  _ Rey _ a spell flying the vessel. Still, it was hard to begrudge her that honour when she had literally saved all of their lives.

The flight to Corellia would be long - without the distraction of actually piloting the Falcon, it would leave him with far too much time to entertain his darkest thoughts.

The first hour of stilted conversation between himself and Chewbacca was barely companionable, but that was nothing compared to the following hour of silence. 

Eventually, even BB-8 was expressing beeps and whirs of boredom, before rolling away muttering something about “entertainment”.

To his credit, Chewbacca’s focus never wanes; his eyes regard the flickering blue light of hyperspace with laser-sharp focus. Even though there is ample time to relax, to stretch one's legs, his giant paws never slip from the controls.

Poe sighs. He resists the urge to place his feet on the control panel again - not after the threat of evisceration that had been thrown his way after his first attempt. Clearly, Han Solo was not the only one to love this ship as though it were a precious child.

He spends a few moments debating whether to bring up the subject currently burning a hole in his tongue. Only after Chewbacca makes a veiled comment about Poe joining BB-8 to seek amusement elsewhere on the ship does he give into his curiosity.

“That new woman,” he begins, “The one who arrived on the Luxury Yacht the other day… Is that really Mara Jade?”

_ <In the flesh.> _

A low whistle escapes Poe. "I’ve heard stories about her for years.” When Chewbacca continues to stare in silence, he tries again. “I mean, you hear a lot of stories in the corps anyway… But is it true that she used to be an assassin for the Emperor?” His companion nods, but does not elaborate. “Then suddenly, after Palpatine dies, she decides to switch her allegiance.”

_ <Not suddenly.> _ Chewbacca’s focus is suddenly torn from the transparisteel window of the cockpit, and he fixes Poe with a serious stare.  _ <Spent years hunting down Jedi Boy. Almost killed him a few times as well. But she was lost - she found her way eventually.> _

A thousand more questions fill Poe’s mind, but he can feel a bite of impatience from Chewbacca. There will be time later to learn the chequered history of Mara Jade, to sift through rumour and fact. But some things he needs to know more immediately. 

“Don’t you find it suspicious that she suddenly shows up when we’re practically on our knees? Aren’t you worried that she could be spying on us for the First Order.”

_ <Princess trusts her. I trust her. You should too.> _ His tone is final, and the glare he shoots at Poe brings too many uncomfortable thoughts to the fore. Thoughts of his failed mutiny, the foolish and risky mission he sent Finn and Rose on, which ultimately doomed so many of their friends and allies… His skin heats with shame, and he shifts his focus to the control panel.

"I hear that she and Rey have been spending time together."

There is a softening in Chewbacca’s expression at the mention of Rey’s name, and his eyes grow almost wistful. Poe swallows, and his next words are quiet and measured. "Can you trust her with Rey?"

His paw tightens around the controls.  _ <If anyone hurts Little One, I will tear their limbs off. Even her.> _

* * *

After another failed hour of conversation and trying to inveigle his way into the pilot’s seat, Poe eventually abandons Chewbacca to the silence of the cockpit.

He passes through the main quarters, where Snap and Nien are currently hunched over the Derjarik board. If the smug grin on Snap’s face is anything to go by, he seems to be winning. For once.

He contemplates for a moment joining them, before he shakes his head. The seemingly endless downtime is providing too much time for the voice of his own self-doubt and recrimination to stir and snarl and snap at his heels. He needs  _ distraction _ .

Sweat begins to bead on his brow, and he tugs uncomfortably at the collar of his shirt. Rey and Rose had been adamant that they had fixed the  _ Falcon’s _ environmental controls only a few days ago. Yet, the air seems to grow only hotter. He licks dry lips, and decides his first distraction will be to go in search of something to quench his growing thirst.

As he enters the galley, he spots Jessika Pava sitting on the bench; absorbed in the act of polished the Resistance emblem on her flight helmet. Her eyes snap up to meet his, and she offers him a nod. “Captain.”

Captain Dameron - a demotion that General Leia looks in no rush to rescind, especially given his actions in the hours following… Honestly, part of him is surprised she didn’t establish a brig as soon as they landed purely for the satisfaction of tossing him into it. Poe cringes at the thought, and rubs a hand on the back of his neck. Leia Organa is many things - but petty is not one of them.

“Jess. Mind if I join you?” he asks. She slides further along the bench to accommodate him, and he accepts the seat gratefully. 

A beat of strained silence passes before she stands up suddenly. “I was thinking of making caf - well, what supposedly passes for caf here.” She chuckles weakly. “I’m sure there’s sewage water in some worlds that tastes better. You want some?”

“What, sewage water or caf?”

Jess merely rolls her eyes in response, and Poe is certain he hears a muttered threat about spitting in his cup.

His fingers brush hers as she passes him the mug. The caf is piping hot but its scent is stale; without the sweetness of nectar to cut through it, the taste is unbearably bitter.

“How are you feeling?” Jess asks him, one finger twirling a loose curl of hair at her temple.

_ Like a failure. Like if the First Order win, it is entirely my fault because I had to play the hero and not listen to orders. _

Instead, he gives a half-hearted shrug. “Fine.”

The awkward up-tilt of her mouth shows that she does not believe him. “You know,” she says in between sips of her drink, “When I was a little kid, I dreamed of being a hero in some great fight against tyranny. Blowing Imperial ships out of the, flying alongside Luke Skywalker, and basically saving the galaxy.” She absentmindedly rubs at her wrist. “Be careful what you wish for, I guess?”

Poe leans back, until his head connects with the durasteel panel. “Yeah.”

Jess clears her throat before she speaks again. “How are you  _ really  _ feeling, Poe? Forgive me for asking, but if you were any more wound up, you wouldn’t need an X-wing to leave atmo.”

That she has seen right through his facade is no surprise - he has spent weeks dodging similar questions, in between pointed whispers in his direction. Leia’s words and her exchange with Chewbacca earlier still fills his mind. 

Had his plan on the  _ Raddus  _ worked, the Resistance would still number nigh on a thousand, not the two dozen or so it currently does. A bold plan, and he would have won praise as a hero.

Instead, they stare and mutter at him, poison in their eyes. The hero turned into, at best a reckless fool who sacrificed too many of his fellows for a shot at glory, or at worst, a war criminal in his own right.

He gulps at his caf - the liquid burns and the taste is nauseating, and he splutters for a moment - immediately relieved by a few firm backslaps from Jess. He lifts a hand to wipe tears (not solely from his near-aspiration, he thinks) from his cheeks.

Her hand lingers a moment on his back, and she rubs a few gentle circles before she withdraws.

“Can you be honest with me, Jess?” he rasps, and he sees the tremble of her lower lip as she nods. “Do you still trust me?”

She draws in a sharp intake of breath; but to her credit, she continues to meet his gaze unflinchingly. “To follow the General’s orders? Unquestionably. But, if you’re asking can I trust you to not to get embroiled in something and risk us all for some asinine scheme?” She shrugs. “I guess I’ll let time be the judge of that.”

Heaviness descends on Poe. His lips are still dry, and he has to gulp another mouthful of caf before he can speak again.

“I promise you one thing, Jess. If it comes to it, the only life I plan on risking is my own.” He reaches over and takes her hand in his, her skin as cool and refreshing as ice over his searing flesh. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

A frown crosses her lips. “How about we all try to stay alive - at least this time?”

* * *

By the time of their arrival on Corellia, Poe has never been more eager to get off a vessel and drink in the cool, fresh air. 

Unfortunately, fresh air seems to be a rare commodity in Coronet City. The atmosphere is thick with the ash and smog. But at least it is cooler than in the  _ Falcon _ , he thinks as he and the others step out of the ship into a port that looks as though it has seen better days. 

It was like stepping into a fossil of the Empire past. A thin sheen of rust covers the durasteel beams. Even through the static on the comms unit, the port authority’s surprise at a vessel requesting permission to dock was audible. 

_ How many other worlds will look like this before the First Order is dead and buried? _ Poe wonders, as he fingers the cool handle of his blaster. 

_ Better this decay than Hosnian Prime,  _ another voice within him says. 

The chrono reads daytime, but the light is hazy, obscured by pollution from the factories and shipyards. Scents of industry fill the air: molten metal, sweat, and despair. Even the few souls they pass have a lean, hungry look to them. He feels suddenly very glad that Chewbacca had volunteered to remain on board the  _ Falcon.  _ Aside from the attention a heavily armed Wookie might attract (especially on  _ this  _ particular planet), Poe has the sneaking suspicion that they might return to the hangar only to find an absent, or at the very least, denuded ship.

_ “I don’t like it here,”  _ BB-8 chirps as they move along a dusty street. 

“Me either, buddy,” Poe murmurs in response. He casts a glance over his shoulder to check on the others. 

Jessika and  Kar é are following close behind; he catches sight of Snap and Nien round a faraway corner. C’ai is nowhere to be seen, but he feels no anxiety over this. C’ai had been his wingman for as long as he had fought with the Resistance - he has excellent instinct, and is as skilled with a blaster as he is in an X-wing. 

They pass a hawker centre. The scent of roasted meats causes Poe’s stomach to rumble, much to BB-8’s amusement. Inside, people are milling around, voices speaking in a dozen different tongues. Ordinary folk - the sort of people he had pledged to protect in his days in the New Republic Defense Fleet. 

Can they feel the First Order’s boot upon their necks, even now? His eyes flicker to the crowds. Just dozens of species chatting and eating. To them, this is just an ordinary day, and the galaxy is continuing to spin as always.

A tiny part of Poe envies them.

He shakes his head, and draws his focus back to the mission.

The streets begin to thin out, as the shipyard whose coordinates Chewbacca had given him comes into view. It too is well past its’ prime. The walls are crumbling, and even the signage is faded with age. The whole area reeks of disuse, but this is definitely the place.

The man in the violet cloak leaning against the door hatch all but guarantees it.

Age has been kind to Lando Calrissian - aside from a dusting of grey in his hair and mustache, and a fullness to his cheeks and jowls, he appears little different from the Rebellion newscasts of Poe’s youth. Even here, in this place with its cloying air and oppressive decay, Calrissian looks the picture of nonchalance. 

As Poe approaches, he feels his fellow pilots drop back. Let him test the water; let him make absolutely sure they are not walking into an elaborate ambush. There is no fear in him - he knows the squadron will have his back.

Calrissian spots him, and his face breaks into a grin far too jovial for their surroundings. He grasps Poe by the hand, shaking it firmly. “Dameron, I’m guessing?”

“The one and only,” he replies. 

“I knew your parents, kid,” Calrissian tells him. “Good folk. If you’re even half the pilot your mother was, then the Resistance is in safe hands.” Mingled pride and discomfort churn within Poe. “Leia said there were six? Where are you hiding the others, under your jacket?” He winks.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve wandered into an ambush when I was supposed to be meeting an ally,” Poe counters. “And forgive me, but you do have history…”

If he expects offense, then the full-bellied laugh Calrissian offers him is positively  _ jarring _ . “Yeah, I’ll admit I deserved that comment. Once. You never made a bad call yourself, even with the best of intentions?”

Something coils in his stomach, and all he can manage in response is sullen silence.

There is no victory in the older man’s gaze. “Forgiveness is a part of life, kid. Anyway, we’re burning daylight. You want to see these X-wings or not?”

The buzzer lets out a dying whine as Calrissian presses it. The voice on the other end is buried beneath a layer of static, but he seems to understand it well enough. 

BB-8 gives Poe’s shin an impatient nudge; a familiar gesture, and Poe’s spine immediately stiffens. Something shifts in the air, and his hand is already cradling the handle of his blaster before he hears the explosion.

He is out of the blast radius, but there is still enough force to knock him into Lando. Poe’s ears ring, and fire and smoke fill the air. Yelps and screams come from all around; he recognises the flash of blaster fire - friend or foe, he does not know.

Jess appears, one hand on his shoulder. “Stormtroopers,” she mutters. 

Blaster bolts rain through the air like hailstones; he watches Calrissian take out a trooper with ease as he fires his own weapon.  _ Ambush! _ Screams over and over in his mind.

Until he sees  _ them. _

A man and a woman, running through the streets. Well, the woman is running… the man follows at a stagger, one hand clutching at his side as he grips a blaster in the other. She too is armed to the teeth - she fires only a single shot at the nearest Stormtrooper, hitting them in the knee.

In the heat of battle, everything slows. Poe fires his weapon, watches in slow motion as it hits one of the Stormtroopers; watches them fall to the ground, hears their death whine like the drone of a failing engine.

He watches the man they are pursuing, lips pale and bloodless, fall in the dirt. His companion rushes back to his side. She shakes him once, twice. But still he remains unmoving. The howl that rips forth from her chills Poe to the very bone.

All around, the last six pilots of the Resistance rain blaster fire down the regiment, and within moments, all the Stormtroopers lie dead in the streets of Coronet City.

Poe approaches the woman, one hand on his weapon still. She has yet to lower her own blaster; her teeth are barred in rage, and there is a mixture of sweat and blood on her dark skin. With her free hand, she cradles her fallen comrade close. They are dressed in identical black bodysuits; hers is torn at the sleeves, but it is nothing compared to the damage wrought on her companion’s garment. It is soaked with blood from a wound to his side.

There is something strangely familiar about their garb that gnaws at Poe’s mind...

“Stay away or I’ll fire!” The woman snaps.

He raises his hands in a gesture of surrender, and reholsters his blaster. He glances around, and sees Lando and his fellow pilots do the same. “We’re with the Resistance,” he says cautiously. “And you just led a platoon of Stromtroopers straight to us. Lucky for you, we took them out. Maybe a little gratitude is in order?”

The woman practically snarls at him. “You speak of killing far too casually! You think they joined the First Order voluntarily? They were brainwashed children!”

Suddenly, Poe knows  _ where _ he has seen the woman’s outfit before…

“You used to be one of them,” he says slowly.

A curt nod is her only answer. She turns away to gaze at the man lying lifeless in her lap, and sobs quietly.

Poe crouches down beside her, but makes no move to lay a hand upon her. “Look, I know this is a bad time but I gotta know… Are any more of the bucketheads on your tail? Because if so, we  _ all _ need to get outta here.”

Through tears, she shakes her head. “No, just a half dozen. You and your little  _ death squad _ ,” she spits the words like poison, “Saw to that well enough.” 

War is war, Poe thinks, but a familiar face springs to his mind.  _ Finn…  _ How easily he could have shot at, or even killed, his friend when he was still trapped under the anonymous white Stormtrooper armour. That thought is deeply unsettling to him, and he does not immediately notice Lando Calrissian approach until he is kneeling on the ground beside them.

Calrissian whips off his flamboyant cloak, and passes it to the woman. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he murmurs, in just the right tone that she doesn’t lash out at him also. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Jannah,” she whispers; there is a flicker in her eyes as though she is trying to place him.

Calrissian extends her a hand. “Lando Calrissian,” he says. 

Her eyes positively bulge. “The war hero?”

“Got it in one, kid,” he tells her with a wink. “Glad to see I’ve not been written out of the history books before I’m even dead.” A weak chuckle is her only response. “I don’t know what happened, but clearly the Force was at work in bringing you here at the same time as ourselves. You need to get off Corellia, and I am sure-” he shoots a glance over his shoulder at Poe, “That Captain Dameron would be more than happy to aid you in that regard.”

Jannah nods, but still pulls her companion’s body close. “I’m not leaving Garven,” she says mulishly. “He deserves more than to be left to rot in the streets.”

“Listen, Jannah,” Poe says. “You’re not the only Stormtrooper who has gone rogue, so to speak. Ever heard of FN-2187?”

She nods warily. “Rumours only. They say he was killed when the  _ Supremacy _ was attacked.”

Poe smiles. “Typical lies and propaganda. No, Finn - that’s his name - is definitely alive and well, and with the Resistance; fighting to bring down the First Order.”

“The same Resistance which is practically dead in the water?” She snaps back, but seems marginally more comfortable in his presence, even if her eyes keep drifting to his blaster.

Luckily, Lando is quicker off the mark. “Hope is like the sun, kid. If you only believe it when you see it, you’ll never survive the night. Or words to that effect,” he adds with a wink. “A very wise woman once told me that - a woman who I know would want to meet and help you.” He reaches out slowly to lay a hand on her shoulder, giving her time to object or pull away. She does not, and leans into his touch. “You can’t stay here, Jannah. They’ll only send more forces after you. But if you go with them,” he jerks his head in Poe’s direction, “Then maybe you can find a way to help others like Garven here.” He gently closes the man’s glassy eyes, and bows his head respectfully.

* * *

_ Finally _ in the cockpit of his new X-Wing, Poe breathes a sigh of relief. Here is where he belongs. His fingers flick the controls with practiced ease. The engine practically purrs as he begins his ascent, the rest of the squadron and the  _ Falcon _ following close behind.

Lando had escorted Jannah to the  _ Falcon, _ helping her carry the body of her deceased companion wrapped in his cloak. How much attention they must have drawn worries Poe - but they had somehow arrived unscathed, and Chewbacca has commed to confirm the  _ Falcon  _ is ready for their departure.

Their takeoff is mercifully uneventful. Not that he wouldn’t relish a dogfight with the First Order in the skies over Corellia - but he remembers Leia’s orders.  _ I would rather lose those X-wings than lose a single pilot. _

But no TIE fighters appear on their radar as they breach atmo. There is no looming shadow of a dreadnought as they prepare to enter hyperspace. But still he feels jittery, though he cannot put his finger on the reason why. 

He licks his dry lips. “Everybody ready for hyperspace jump?”

A chorus of “Copy, Black leader,” BB-8’s affirmative beeps and what sounds like a growl of acquiesce from the  _ Falcon’s  _ comms, and Poe flips the switch on his control panel. 

After a few minutes, the air in his T-85 grows uncomfortably warm. Perspiration beads on the back of his neck. A frown crosses his lips. “BB-8, check the environmental controls.”

He hears the whistles and whirs of the droid as he tugs off his helmet. His hair is limp with sweat; removing the helmet does little to alleviate the situation.

“ _ All normal _ ,” comes BB-8’s response after a few moments.

As the downtime of hyperspace drags on for what feels like an eternity, Poe tugs at the collar of his flight suit. A nausea begins to build in his gut; his head feels too full, and he struggles to centre himself.

BB-8’s chirps pull him back to reality, and he looks at the nav holo on the control panel. “Approaching Cademimu sector,” Poe announces over the comms, and is shocked by how hoarse and thick his voice sounds. Gods, he needs a drink… 

He feels a shudder as they drop out of hyperspace, and the green surface of Ajan Kloss peers out into the distance. The others follow one by one, and finally the  _ Falcon _ joins them only moments later. His relief is a palpable thing. A brief message is sent to the base below, and he begins to guide his X-wing to enter atmo.

A tremor moves through his hands as they grip the controls. For a foolish moment, Poe thinks he might faint. But he bites down on that thought, and focuses instead on the landing checks. BB-8 has run through them a dozen times in hyperspace, but the mental exertion distracts him from his discomfort. His flight suit is soaked, and sweat is trickling into his eyes as they descend into the clouds hovering over the moon.

“Ready to land, buddy?”

Together, he and BB-8 guide their vessel over the jungle canopy until they see the clearing designated as their landing site. Just a few more moments, he tells himself. His throat is parched, and he half-chuckles at the look on General Organa’s face if he simply decided to strip to the altogether immediately on landing - anything to feel the air on his burning flesh.

A thought flickers into his mind; his hands hesitate over the controls as he tries to stifle it. 

The landing is not Poe’s best. He overestimates the distance between himself and the tree line, and clips one of the S-foils on an overhanging branch of a broadleaf tree, and cringes. Even as a novice, he  _ never _ made that sort of error. Bile builds up in his throat.

That earlier thought can no longer be silenced - it is positively screaming in his head.

After touchdown, Poe cannot exit the cockpit fast enough. He clambours out of the X-wing, landing on his knees with a dull thud. One hand grips the undercarriage of the ship as he doubles over, and vomits on the grass.

He feels a hand on his shoulder. He wipes his mouth, and looks into Jessika’s face. Even beneath her helmet, he can see the concern in her eyes - she has never been good at hiding emotions, always too open. “Are you all right?” she asks, passing him a canteen of water to wash away the burning in his throat.

“Fine,” he croaks. 

She does not believe that. And neither does he.

* * *

By the time Jess has half-carried him to the hospital tent, one word is echoing in Poe’s mind. His skin now feels ice cold, and he brushes away both Jess and BB-8 when they try to ask him how he is feeling. 

Doctor Kalonia greets him with a somber smile. Whilst she is checking over Jannah, she instructs her FX-6 droid to check his heart rate, blood pressure and temperature. The droid pokes and probs at him, whirring quietly.

Once Jannah has been given a clean bill of health, and has left the medical tent glaring at Poe, the doctor turns her focus to him and begins to question him in a soft, clinical tone.

No, this has never happened before now.

Yes, it has been two years since his last physical - but being a squadron commander ( _ Captain  _ now, he mentally corrects himself with a cringe) in a small scale rebellion against galactic tyranny means some things have to slide.

She clucks when the droid records his temperature, and makes it repeat the action. 

Every second, Poe’s stomach grows heavier. He feels like he has swallowed a block of durasteel. Dr Kalonia is speaking; at least, her lips are moving, though he can hear no sound escape her mouth. 

Until she says the word  _ Bloodburn. _

That word seems to echo in the air, growing louder until he fears his ears may bleed from it.

He thought he would scream, rage at fate for this latest affront. Curse the Force, curse the First Order, curse every moment since the inception of time and the universe itself. 

Instead, only a quiet resignation fills Poe. He slumps forward, elbows on his knees, and buries his hands in his hair. Breaths escape him in short pants; even when the chanting of  _ bloodburn  _ subdues, his heart still pounds in his ears.

The doctor grips his shoulder; her tone is sympathetic, but the words meaningless. The cockpit is his  _ home,  _ his anchor; if not a pilot, then who is Poe Dameron? His very  _ purpose  _ is crumbling before him. He looks up at Doctor Kalonia frantically.

“It couldn’t be anything else - food poisoning? Or insect bites - I’ve been bitten a dozen times since we settled here!”

She shakes her head, and kneels down by his chair to meet his eyes. “No, Captain Dameron. If this were simply down to bites, you would not be my first patient. Besides, there aren’t any insectiods on this moon which can infect humanoids, and you’d have very different symptoms if this were an allergic reaction.” She sighs. “And as for food poisoning - have you eaten anything other than rations in the last few days?”

“No,” he grumbles, and runs a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the roots. His stomach is a leaden weight. Sounds become indistinct, fuzzy - he feels almost drunk, his head full of dust. 

“I am sorry,” Doctor Kalonia says, placing a hand over his wrist. “I’ve known you a long time, Poe. Being a pilot isn’t just a role to you, is it? It’s the very essence of your life and your being.”

Poe’s eyes sting. “My mother,” he says in a hoarse whisper. “She was piloting ships every day before she realised she was pregnant with me.” He shakes his head, and hopes the doctor doesn’t notice the glistening in his eyes. “I’ve been in the cockpit of an X-Wing since I was in the womb.” He rises, and begins to pace the med tent. “I’ve seen so many good people lost to the corps with bloodburn,” the word leaves his mouth like ash, “I just never expected it to touch me.”

“Then you know that I have to ground you.”

Something in Poe breaks - he steps forward and grips the doctor by her biceps. “No,” he says on a moan. “We have six pilots, Harter. Six! Our whole rebellion is running on fumes - you can’t ground me!”

To her credit, there is no anxiety in Harter Kalonia’s eyes, nor anger, as she gently extricates herself from Poe’s bruising grasp. “I’m afraid I don’t have a choice, Captain. New Republic law-”

“The New Republic is gone, Harter!” He practically screams. “We are literally all that stands between the First Order and total domination! We need every pilot in the sky we have!”

Her eyebrow flicks upwards. “Six X-wings against a fleet of TIE Fighters and dreadnaughts is equally as poor odds as five,” she says. 

“Not if I’m in the cockpit,” he mutters, uncaring how arrogant he sounds. “Please, just pump me full of Hadeira serum - anything, just don’t ground me.” His voice grows higher with every word, and he hates the pleading in his tone. 

Poe Dameron was not a man of fear. Even weaponless, in the clutches of the First Order, face to face with Kylo Ren himself, he had maintained his composure. But this… this had broken him.

Doctor Kalonia draws her mouth into a tight line. “Aside from the fact I don’t have any,” she tells him, and ignores his groan. “Hadeira serum is not without its problems. There’s a reason we never used in the New Republic Navy - it was toxic, and often caused more problems than it solved. Dizziness, kidney failure, hallucinations. No,” she shakes her head. “I can’t, and I won’t, Captain Dameron.”

He kicks her desk, and yelps at the pain in his foot. “Fine. But please, Harter… Ground me if you must… but not  _ yet _ . We’re too weak, too fragile to lose a single pilot.” He hears the echo of General Leia’s voice in the back of his. “If the First Order-”

“This conflict isn’t just about you versus the First Order,” she says, a bite in her tone. “Your arrogance almost killed us once before.” 

If she expects him to recoil, he does not. Instead, his eyes drift to the FX-6 droid, currently watching the proceedings with polite disinterest. “That droid,” he says slowly. “How old is the model? Twenty, maybe thirty years?”

She shrugs. “Older, probably. What has that got to do with anything?”

“Our droids are decades old; the  _ Falcon  _ is basically held together with electrical tape and luck; our General is a disgraced Senator, and our ranks include a defected Stormtrooper, a desert scavenger and an ex-Imperial assassin!” A muscle seems to twitch in Doctor Kalonia’s face at the mention of Mara Jade, he notes, but is unperturbed. “We are not some elite military with the best of the best; we’re a ragtag, imperfect group, but we’re all that the galaxy has right now,” he says, and finds his confidence growing marginally as understanding crosses her face. “We can’t be perfect with imperfect resources - we just have to do our best with what - and who - we’ve got.”

Slice hangs heavily in the air. A war seems to rage in the doctor’s eyes as she paces around the tent. She stops, and pinches her brow for a moment. “What you’re asking me to do is break my Physician’s Oath,” she says, unable to meet his eyes. 

Poe approaches, and places a hand on her back. “I’m asking you to give me, and the Resistance, a chance. I’ll do absolutely everything else you ask - but please,  _ please _ do not ground me… If I’m going to die, I’d rather die a her- I'd rather die in a cockpit than being blown to smithereens on the ground, unable to protect my friends and my cause.”

A groan escapes her. “You know, I deserve to lose my medical license for this,” she mutters, and gives the tiniest nod as her ascent. Poe bites his lip to stifle a grin, but she places a hand on his chest. “A few conditions, though. Not least of which is you staying out of the cockpit as much as possible; no debates on this one,” she snaps at his frustrated groan. “You are always the first to volunteer for a mission. Let someone else have a chance from now on. You keep well hydrated - water, preferably, - and keep your caf and alcohol consumption to the barest minimum. You come to see me - regularly - for a check-up. And, crucially, as soon as we have a large enough fleet - you stay out of the cockpit. Permanently.” A long sigh escapes her. “And as to the Hadeira serum… I’ll see what I can do.”

He throws his arms around her, but she pushes him away. “I am compromising my very integrity for you, Poe Dameron,” she says. “Do not give me cause to regret it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your ongoing support/reading.
> 
> I’m not going to lie - the final part of this chapter was an emotional challenge for me to write. A number of years ago, I lost a friend of mine who was killed when a person who had been deemed unsafe to drive for medical reasons, ignored that advice and collapsed behind the wheel. Three lives were taken with that one selfish action. 
> 
> Writing this particular plotline is my way of still trying to process what happened - why people feel that rules don’t apply to them. (Something we are seeing in the attitudes of many people who refuse to wear masks/social distance when we are still in the midst of a global pandemic.) Poe will eventually have to deal with major consequences from his decision… But it gave me the chance to do something with the character beyond “ex-drug dealer/Han Solo Mk II”, so we’ll see how it all plays out.
> 
> Anyway... Up next is a predominately Rey-centric chapter. Will our favourite Supreme Leader also be making an appearance?


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey gets a taste of a very different Force instructor; Finn bonds with the Resistance’s latest recruit; and Mara finds herself in an uncomfortable situation...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was supposed to be the chapter where Ben and Rey _finally_ talk it out... But the plot (and a few other characters!) ran away with me. In the interests of not dumping a 15K chapter on you, and burning myself out, I've split it in two. Hoping to have Chapter 11 up in the next few days.
> 
> In the meantime - thank you again for your support, especially with the last chapter and some of my personal demons. Your comments were greatly appreciated!

Mara Jade and Luke Skywalker could not have proved more different instructors.

Luke’s two lessons had been brief, and centred more on philosophy than actual useful instruction. Whereas Mara was ever pragmatic. Whether it was because of her past as a woman of action, or simply that she saw no use for deeper debates, Rey could not entirely determine.

That first morning, when Rey appeared in the clearing at dawn, Mara's relief had been palpable. Rey refused to be skittish and hesitant around a former Imperial assassin. After all, Finn had been a Stormtrooper once, and he was her best friend. 

R2-D2 had followed, and shared a surprisingly enthusiastic reunion with Mara Jade. Whilst Rey divested herself of her arm wraps, and hurriedly tied up her hair in a loose bun, the droid was happily beeping and buzzing away, and Mara had lain her brow against its head. 

After their initial sparring session (again, won by Mara), she had impressed Rey with a demonstration of a Force assisted jump and somersault with her lightsaber. Now this, she thought as she watched, slack-jawed, was exactly the type of tuition she had been hoping for from Skywalker.

However, Rey’s own virgin attempt at the move, even with Mara’s patient instruction, ended with a mouthful of dust and a laceration to her chin. 

“The first time I tried the Ataru form,” Mara says, pulling Rey to her feet again and inspecting her injury with a practiced eye, “I split my head open.” With a flick of her red hair, Rey sees the ghost of a scar running from temple to occiput. “It’s an impressive move in a duel - although admittedly, not great against blasters, which I suppose most of your opponents will be using…”

Rey found herself drifting away from Mara’s voice. Smoke fills her nostrils as her mind recalls that fight in Snoke’s throne room.

She and Ben - no, _Kylo_ , she has to remind herself - had taken down the Praetorian Guard not with acrobatics or impressive displays of Force, but with sheer desperation and fear for their own lives, and the life of the one they lo-

“No,” she murmurs, and only realises she had spoken aloud when she looks into Mara’s puzzled face. 

“No, what?”

A flush creeps over Rey. “Sorry.” Unconsciously, her fingers drift to the healing scar on her right bicep.

The gesture does not escape Mara; her green eyes seem to hone in on the wound. “Curious scar,” she says. Rey immediately drops her hand as if burned. A frown appears on the older woman’s face. “From a vibro-arbir blade, if I were to guess?” Rey’s eyes flick upwards in response, eliciting a chuckle from Mara. “Assassin, remember? I would have been very poor at my profession if I couldn’t recognise a weapon from it’s scar.”

The flippancy with which she speaks of her past is an act; Rey can sense the guilt ever present in Mara’s heart. 

Her own gut is twisting as she hopes Mara does not pry too deeply into exactly _how_ Rey acquired this scar… She tries to affect a casual demeanour. “I’ll take your word for it. I was too busy trying to stay alive.”

“A wise approach, given the circumstances,” Mara says. Her lips remain parted, and she looks as though she wants to say more on the topic. “It looks fairly recent - it isn’t going to go away fully with bacta, but it might help it fade quicker.”

Rey shrugs. “I don’t mind - it isn’t my only scar. Most scavengers had them.”

“True. Speaking of which,” Mara clicks her fingers as if she has only just remembered something. “I have a little side project for you. Putting some old skills to use, if you want. But first - let’s clean that cut,” she brushes a thumb over the new scar on Rey’s chin, “And I think we’ve both earned a pot of tea.”

As they meander through the jungle back towards the _Jade’s Fire_ , Rey is grateful that Mara is not one for idle chatter. Her every word is said with purpose. It is not that Rey _dislikes_ conversing with others, especially Finn, Rose, Kaydel and Leia - but a lifetime of solitude has not exactly given her the skills nor fortitude for a continuous stream of small talk.

Of course, in the silence there is the temptation to study Mara’s Force signature once more. The darkness in it, Rey thinks she understands - although Mara has revealed only scant details of her past, there was obviously rage and violence aplenty. The light too - Rey senses she is perhaps kinder than she would ever care to admit. But what transfixes Rey most about Mara Jade is how neither the dark nor the light attempt to swallow one another. Hers is not a turbulent Force signature, but a peaceful coexistence of the two.

Light. Darkness. A balance.

She wonders what Mara sees when she looks at Rey’s own Force signature?

* * *

In her scavenging days, the contents of the storage compartment on the _Jade’s Fire_ would have kept Rey drowning in portions for a year at least. Hungry eyes pore over every piece of scrap: droid skeletons with their central cores exposed, a dozen blasters with missing or broken power packs, and even perhaps enough scrap to build a hyperdrive from scratch.

“I swear, it’s here somewhere,” Mara mutters, pulling a sheet off a pile of boxes and raining dust over both herself and Rey. “Ah ha!” She says with a triumphant grin, motion to a battered wooden crate with her foot. “Here she is!” 

Rey scrunches her nose to stifle a sneeze as she drops to her knees. Inquisitive eyes watch as Mara opens the box. Amidst piles of other scrap parks is a large circular droid with missing panels and wiring poking out. “A seeker droid?”

“Correct - a Marksman H combat remote, to be precise,” Mara says. She fumbles with the activation switch a few times before the droid briefly sputters to life. It vibrates, emits a painfully loud whine and more than a few sparks, before collapsing back in the box with a thud. “Oh well, at least it didn’t explode,” she quips. 

Rey snickers. “Let me guess - you want me to fix it?”

“Smart girl. Shouldn’t prove too much of a challenge with your background. Once she’s up and running again, I can teach you a few practical tricks. You can probably already deflect a blaster bolt with a lightsaber - but can you stop one in mid-air?”

“No, but that would be useful,” Rey says. She bites her lip for a moment. “Why do we need a droid for that?” She jerks her head towards the blaster still strapped to Mara’s thigh. 

Mara huffs. “If I fire a blaster at you - even as a teaching exercise - Leia and Chewie _will_ eviscerate me.” A smile crosses her lips. “They’re both exceptionally fond of you, Rey.”

She finds herself reddening at the compliment. Both Chewie and the General have been so free with their affection - especially Chewie’s penchant for hugging her close whenever she is even remotely despondent - that, although it does not banish the memories of her loneliness, they are starting to fade in the warmth of being cared for.

Nonetheless, a question springs to Rey’s lips. “Yesterday, when we were sparring…” She struggles to articulate her thought, but the frown on Mara’s lips tells her she understands.

“You want to know if Leia trusts me?” She says, and Rey nods bashfully. “Leia Organa has never been an easy person to read - believe me, I’ve known her for the better part of thirty years - but, yes, I believe she does trust me. More than she lets on, but probably less than I would like her to. Especially when it comes to you.” 

That sentence hangs in the air as Mara grows silent, and busies herself with pulling more scrap out of the box. She spends a few moments admiring a power coil that, even on his most avaricious day, Plutt would have given Rey two dozen portions for, before she sighs and speaks again.

“Tell me Rey… How much do you truly know about Kylo Ren?”

_More than probably anyone else in the galaxy._

Rey clears her throat. When she speaks, her words are low and wary. “I know that he’s Leia’s son, if that’s what you’re asking.”

A look of sorrow passes over Mara before she schools her features. “Indeed. Rather complicates the whole Resistance versus First Order dynamic, doesn’t it? Almost like something out of a holo-drama.” She turns away from Rey, and fixes her gaze at a point in the distance. “To the galaxy, Kylo Ren is an unrepentant murderer and megalomaniac; but to me, he’s still just a gangly eight year old who loves calligraphy and wants nothing more than to become a pilot, and fly the _Millennium Falcon_.” She shakes her head. “Time is cruel, Rey. It changes us all. Sometimes the wrong - or, in my case, the right - influence can push a person’s life down a very different path.”

Rey mulls over that thought for a moment. She can sense no malice in Mara - not like she had with Snoke, or even with Kylo when she was strapped to that horrid interrogation chair on Starkiller Base. Guilt, yes. Self-doubt hidden behind a veneer of confidence and levity. Fierce protectiveness. But, even in the blackest parts of her soul, Mara Jade will not allow herself to plunge back into the darkness.

“I don’t think you’re going to corrupt me, Mara,” she tells her; this draws a wry chuckle from her mentor.

Mara stands, and her knee makes a horrible creaking sound with the gesture. “Shall we continue this conversation with tea? I find it goes well with emotional catharsis.”

The two women dust themselves off before making their way to the galley. Whilst the tea is brewing, Mara crosses her legs and sits opposite Rey. 

“Dark influences don’t always declare themselves as such,” she says as she passes Rey a steaming mug of tea. Her middle finger begins to circle the rim, and it is a few moments before she speaks further. “Sometimes they come in the guise of friends, of parental figures, of the mentor promising you everything you want and need.” 

Rey takes a long, thoughtful sip of tea before she speaks again. “I’m only a scavenger,” she says with a hint of self-deprecation, “But I also don’t think they warn you of how dangerous they are.”

 _Or admit to being a monster,_ she thinks bitterly.

“True. Although I would dispute one point.” At the upwards flick of Rey’s brows, Mara smiles. “You’re not ‘only a scavenger’. You’re a powerful young woman, who is perhaps wiser than she gives herself credit for. Now,” she downs her tea in a single swallow. “I think we’ve neglected your other duties for the morning. Rest up, and I will see you tomorrow morning, same place.”

Already anticipation bubbles within Rey. Though she suspects that she and Mara will have many more of these conversations in the future, she is ready to focus on something other than the Force and its foibles for a few hours. “As you wish, _Master Jade,”_ she replies.

Mara rolls her eyes. “Call me that again, and this will be the last time I invite you to tea,” she says, ignoring her pupil’s cheeky grin as she waves goodbye.

* * *

When Chewie comes to find him in the aftermath of the mission, Finn can scarcely believe the tale he weaves (well, that Rey translates on his behalf). Not that Poe had managed to stumble into a skirmish - chaos seems to follow him like a shadow - but of the extra passenger they had managed to acquire on Corellia.

Even Rey’s eyes widen, and a knowing look passes between her and Finn. 

His heart beats a rapid tattoo as he follows Chewie to the _Falcon._ So many questions buzz around, his head feels like a fire-wasp nest. There is one thought he tries to grasp at, but keeps losing to the cacophony. 

Finn’s steps are mechanical, and he almost tramples a stray Porg as he steps onto the boarding ramp. “Sorry, buddy,” he murmurs at the bird’s indignant squawking. But at least the creature doesn’t nip him.

This time, at least.

Voices carry from the lounge area. Finn recognises the calm, warming tone of General Leia, and even a few words from Kaydel. 

“Ah, Finn,” Leia says fondly as he sets into the longue. She is seated at the Derjarik board, with Kaydel hovering over her protectively. Across the table sits an unfamiliar woman, clad in the same torn black bodysuit that he himself had once worn. “I’ve just been telling Jannah here all about you.” 

The stranger regards Finn with wide eyes that seem to scrutinize him. She sits straight; so unlike his own fidgety demeanour when he had first been dragged into the Resistance. 

Then, he realises he is staring. He reaches out to shake her hand; it is warm, and the grip is firm. “Finn,” he says, before adding lamely, “Welcome to the Resistance.”

Leia, Kaydel and Chewie say a few words of farewell, before leaving the two alone in the _Falcon’s_ longue. Finn slips into Leia’s vacated seat, and folds his arms on the Dejarik board. 

Silence hangs heavily in the air. Social niceties were not part of any Stormtrooper training he had ever undertaken; he suspects Jannah’s experience is similar to his own. 

After a few moments, she clears her throat. “TZ-1719,” she says, then shakes her head. “Sorry, I don't know why I said that.”

“Your assignment number?”

Jannah nods. “And you were FN-2187,” she says. “Heard about you, you know?” A look of surprise crosses Finn’s face - for a moment, he wonders if she is teasing, but her gaze remains sincere. “The Stormtrooper who broke free. Although according to that tale, you’re also supposed to be dead.” She arches her brow. “Turns out you can’t always trust rumours.”

Finn chuckles weakly. “No, you can’t. I’m very glad to debunk that one - although there were a few close calls along the way.” He stares at her for a moment, wondering if it would be impertinent to ask the question on his tongue so soon after meeting her. But curiosity wins. “How did-”

“I end up here?” Jannah finishes, dropping. Her shoulders sag. “It’s not a happy tale.” When she lifts her head, her eyes glisten. “But then again, I suspect no worse than yours.” Her words are devoid of tone, as though she can only bear to talk on the subject in a distant, clinical manner. “My company was assigned to the _Steadfast_. We spent most of the last year sweeping up systems in the Outer Rim. It was hard, brutal.” A hitch in her breath, before she continues, “I started to lose count of how many lives I had taken. But at least they were shooting at me too, so it felt…” she searched for the word.

“Justified?”

Jannah met his eyes. “I suppose. But then, one day, we were ordered to attack a small settlement. No soldiers, just civilians. Kill the adults, and sweep up the children to be the next generation of us,” she gestured to the space between their bodies. “I doubt that the village had a dozen blasters in total, but they sent an entire regiment of Stormtroopers to attack them anyway. It wasn’t going to be a battle - it was supposed to be a _massacre_.”

Revulsion rises in Finn as she speaks; her own expression is losing its cold neutrality as her face contorts into a grimace. The word _Tuanul_ echoes in his brain. 

“Something in me broke that day,” she continues quietly. “Actually, no. Something woke up in me - that part I had always silenced because it made it easier not to feel. I _couldn't_ fire on families and unarmed civilians. So I refused. A few others felt the same.” She gazes at a point in the distance. “For one dizzying moment, as we laid our weapons down, I thought the whole company would rebel.” Then, her voice hardens, and drops to a whisper. “Then our brothers and sisters started firing on us.” 

Finn feels a sharp pain in his chest. “But you got away?”

“A few of us did,” she replies. “But most of us were killed.” A beat. “As were the civilians in the crossfire. We tried to protect them, and we got them killed anyway.”

Suddenly, the air on the _Falcon_ feels thick and cloying. Finn rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Can’t say my story was much different,” he admits. “Only, I didn’t have the courage to lay down my weapon. Just didn’t fire it and hoped no one would notice.”

Jannah reaches over the table to lay her hand over his. He starts, and she pulls away. “How did you get away from the Order?”

“Stole a ship and a rebel prisoner to pilot it,” Finn says.

Jannah’s eyes narrow. “Not Dameron?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t shoot you first; that seems to be his approach to everything.” Her voice is suddenly dripping with venom; Finn fills with the urge to defend Poe, only to remember that all Jannah has seen of him is battle. She doesn’t see the man who bolstered the spirits of the resistance members in the aftermath of Crait, or who embraced him as a brother despite his past as a Stormtrooper.

Luckily, he is spared from answering by the timely appearance of a porg flapping onto the table. Jannah yanks out her blaster. But the creature merely regards her with wide, stupid eyes, entirely unpertubed at the weapon pointed at it.

Finn sweeps the bird away; it nips him with an indignant squawk before waddling away.

A strange sound, like the wheeze of an engine, comes from Jannah - it startles her, and it takes a moment for them both to realise she is _laughing._ Finn’s own giggle bursts forth, and soon tears are streaming down both of their faces. Jannah claps her hands over her mouth to try and centre herself, but that only elicits another laugh from Finn.

“Sorry,” she says, “I just…” she bites down another snigger, “I just haven’t laughed in a long time.”

“Chewie won’t let us eat the little beasts,” Finn says; his laughter has dissolved to panting breaths, and he feels the pain in his heart start to lift a fraction. “He has appointed himself Lord and Protector of all porgs. Still, it’s good to know they have their uses aside from dinner.”

Jannah leans back on the couch. There is a strange lightness to her - whether from vocalising her trauma, or merely shared humour, he doesn’t know. She bites her lip, and says barely above a whisper, “Finn, can I ask you a personal question?” At his answering nod, she continues, “Do you remember much about… before?”

His mouth forms a hard line. “All I’ve ever known is the First Order. Why, do you…?”

She sucks in a harsh breath. “Not much. I sometimes dream of a meadow full of flowers - not somewhere the corps would have taken me - and I wonder if that was once my home? But it’s always… I don’t know how to explain it… Like shadows?” She gestures lamely with her hand. “No details, just impressions. And I remember a woman - a pretty woman, with eyes like mine - tucking me into bed. She would sing to me as well. I don't know who she was, but she made me feel safe when I dreamt of her…”

Finn blinks a few times. “Got to admit, I’m jealous,” he says. “Shadows are more than I ever managed. I don't even know my birth name. FN-2187 was the only name I've ever known. Is Jannah…?”

“My birth name?” She shrugs. “I don’t know for certain, but that name has always stuck in my mind. I am sorry that you don’t remember anything,” she says quietly.

“And I’m sorry you remember enough,” he replies.

“Were you ever reconditioned?”

Finn exhales a sharp breath. “Phasma threatened me with it, once. The day I defected, actually. Why do you ask?”

Jannah gazes at him solemnly. “I think... I think what they do isn’t just ‘reconditioning’. I think it's a way of stripping out your memories of... before. Memories of love, kindness…” She shakes her head. “They want us to be machines, and I think they strip away our humanity by taking away our memories of being human.”

Finn is silent for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “I’ve been wondering about reconditioning a lot recently. And why it was so common. I think,” he says, holding her eyes with an intense stare, “That the First Order’s control over us is a lot more tenuous than they want us to believe.”

“So maybe,” Jannah says, grasping onto his meaning, “All it would take to burn the Order to ashes is for someone to spark the fire from within?”

“Exactly.”

“Garven said the same thing,” she whispers. At his puzzled stare, she clarifies, “My friend. The one I escaped to Coruscant with.” Her lips tremble slightly. “He died in the ambush on Corellia.”

“I’m sorry,” Finn says. The words sound feeble - how can they encompass all that he feels, knowing now how he was not the only Stormtrooper, frightened, feeling alone and dreaming of a way out?

Jannah rubs at the tear in the arm of her bodysuit. “I suppose he was like a brother to me - we swore that, even if we never found our birth families, we would still be each other’s family.” She turns her head in the direction of the sleeping quarters. “I wasn’t going to leave him to rot in the streets. He deserved far, far better than what fate gave him.”

“Then let’s give him a proper, decent burial,” Finn declares.

Under the beating heat of the mid-day sun, they carry the body from the _Falcon,_ still wrapped in the vibrant cloak of Lando Calrissian. Though a few others step forward to offer help, Finn politely sends them away. Deep in his marrow, he knows this is for him and Jannah to handle alone.

It will not make up for the thousands of Stormtroopers he allowed to die on Starkiller. But, as he digs a grave in the jungle near a patch of brilliant yellow flowers, he thinks it is a start.

And maybe, now Finn has found his role in this war.

* * *

Dinner at their table is oddly subdued. Poe, usually so gregarious, barely speaks during their meal - perhaps exacerbated by the cold looks Jannah is casting over at him. 

After the meal (having finally cleared this sabaac induced debt of mess duties), Finn takes Rose by the hand. “I was wondering if you wanted to sit and watch the stars with me tonight?” he asks shyly.

Rose nods. “I’d love that.” She reaches up to brush her lips against his, before Kaydel interrupts with a lewd whistle.

“Stargazing,” she says, tilting her blonde head playfully. “Of course, we all know what _that’s_ a euphemism for.” She winks at Rose, who merely sticks her tongue out in response. “Remember kids - be safe, and don’t forget to invite me to the wedding!”

Finn splutters, which only widens Kaydel’s grin. Luckily, Rey is on hand to drag Kaydel back to their tent, and a bemused Jannah follows them.

Before Poe can make similarly vulgar insinuations, Finn grabs Rose and together they head through the treeline. The air is heavy with the perfume of flowers, and a few nocturnal birds chirp and hoot at their presence. 

It takes twenty minutes, but they find a small clearing, with enough open sky to gaze out at the galaxy. Finn divests himself of his jacket and lays it out on the grass. Both he and Rose sink to the ground, and he gathers her into his arms. Their kiss is slow, languid, and he feels strangely content despite the emotional upheaval of the day.

Rose is the one to break away, brushing her thumb over his cheekbone. “Not that I mind, but I know you didn’t bring me out here to gaze at stars, or do… other… things,” she says. “What’s wrong?”

He sighs, and presses a kiss to her crown before speaking. “When I was talking to Jannah earlier, she told me something. Apparently I'm some sort of legend among the troopers,” he admits, cringing at the words. “FN-2187, the man who escaped and came back to kill Phasma.” He grimaces. “They got that story wrong. The man who tried to run away and kept running.”

“And stopped running to stand up and fight,” Rose says, and a grin appears on her face. “Legend here and in the Order. Don't let it go to your head.”

Finn takes her hand and fixes her with a serious gaze. “Not to criticise Leia, especially given our… circumstances, but what good am I doing out hiding out here in the Outer Rim? Jannah says that there are others, like me and her and her regiment - other Stormtroopers afraid, consumed with guilt and desperate to break free. What if all it needed was a rallying call - someone to stand up and tell them that they’re not alone, that there _is_ a way out of the Order, a way to tear it to the ground?”

“You want to start an insurrection?” Rose asks; there is no incredulity in her voice. No, she sounds… _proud_.

“I think so - but I don’t know how.” Finn brushes an insect from his sleeve. “I can’t just ask the General to smuggle myself onto a First Order ship, after all. We both saw how well that turned out last time.”

She laughs gently. “Well, we’ll come up with a better plan this time.” And she leans in to kiss him once more.

* * *

It takes a few days (plus some additional insights and advice from Rose) before Rey has finally rendered the seeker droid functional once more. After the last few mornings of being soundly thrashed in sparring and sustaining a few more (now healed) cuts after trying the Ataru manoeuvre once again, she is glad to have an opponent she can truly vent her frustration on.

Mara too is oddly delighted. “Now, this is part of the authentic Jedi training experience,” she tells Rey with a grin. At her pupil’s raised eyebrows, she adds, “Oh come on, it wasn’t all long afternoons mediating and communing with the Force, followed by sparring with sticks. You remembered the lightsaber?” Rey pats the borrowed weapon still strapped to her belt. “Excellent.” She beckons the younger woman forward, and positions her a few feet away from the droid. “Just say when you’re ready.”

A nod. “I’m ready.” She ignites the lightsaber, and feels the vibrations of its crystal thrum through her.

“Then we begin.” Mara flips the activation switch, and steps back.

The droid unleashes a single blaster shot to her left. Rey swings the purple saber, and deflects it effortlessly. One shot, then another. Easy as swatting a fly.

Then, an onslaught of blaster bolts fill the air as the droid begins to swirl around her. Left, right, up, down - Rey spins on the spot, twirling her blade and knocking each shot out of the way. Faster and faster the droid fires, and still she parries the shots. A sheen of sweat forms on her brow. Her grunts grow louder and each blow is met with increasing force behind it. 

Vaguely, she hears sparks and crashes as the bolts hit the trees around her; she has to dodge a large branch as it falls to the ground near her feet.

That momentary hesitation is all the droid needs. A shot from behind grazes her shoulder, and she yelps in pain before sprinting forward and ducking behind the droid. Before it can turn, she smashes it with the hilt of the lightsaber.

It darkens and falls to the ground with a heavy thud.

Mara steps forward and claps a few times. “Decent first try,” she says, grazing her fingers over the burn on Rey’s shoulder. “Let’s get some bacta on that, and tomorrow we’ll try you on the intermediate setting.”

Rey pants, staring at her teacher incredulously. “That was the easy setting?”

“Of course not,” Mara replies, sinking to the ground and rummaging in her satchel. “That was the hardest setting - I thought you might like a challenge. Ah ha!” She pulls out a box of bacta patches, and beckons Rey to kneel beside her. Careful fingers lay the cool patch over the blaster wound. 

“I didn’t think I was _that_ bad,” Rey says a touch defensively. She hisses as the bacta begins to sink into her flesh, knitting the skin back together. 

“Quite the contrary - you were excellent.”

“Then why-”

“Why am I stepping you down a setting?”

Mara gestures to the clearing around them. Broken, smoking branches litter the ground. A sandstorm would have caused less damage, Rey thinks. “Because it’s one thing to protect yourself; but you need to be mindful of collateral damage. Not so much if it’s just you against multiple assailants. But if you are fighting with allies, you can’t have blaster bolts ricocheting and hurting them. Or worse, any innocents unlucky enough to be caught in the crossfire.”

Rey feels her shoulders sag. “I understand.”

“Good. Because the moment you forget that…” Mara grows suddenly silent. “Well,” she says after a moment in a tone that is a little too bright. “Shall we call it a day early? Give your shoulder a proper chance to heal before tomorrow.”

“Actually…” Rey reaches over for her own satchel. “I was wondering if I could borrow your eyes on something?”

There is a spike of curiosity from her mentor before she nods. “Of course.”

The broken shards of her lightsaber had felt like a durasteel weight as she had made her way to this morning’s training session. She pulls them out of the bag, and places them in her lap.

A low whistle escapes Mara. “When Leia told me that you had a broken lightsaber…”

“You didn’t think she meant kyber crystal included,” Rey finishes. She holds the two halves of the weapon out to Mara. The casing is cool against her fingers.

She watches Mara swallow, and there is a tremor in her hands as she accepts them from Rey. With quiet reverence, she turns over the two halves in her hands. Her fingers graze the shards of it’s cracked crystal. A sudden deluge of emotions washes over Rey; just as quickly, it vanishes, and she knows that Mara has thrown up a mental shield. 

The broken lightsaber is pressed back into Rey’s hands. “Well,” Mara says, barely above a whisper, “The kyber crystal is indeed broken.”

“When I was with Luke,” her pupil says, “I may have… stolen… some ancient Jedi texts from him.”

Mara claps a hand to her mouth; Rey cannot decipher if she is trying to conceal a laugh, a groan, a look of horror, or all three at once. Probably all of them, she decides. “You… stole… the _Aionomicum_? From Luke Skywalker?”

Rey gives a hesitant nod. “I didn’t know that’s what the books were called, but… yes?”

“Kriff, Rey…” She shakes her head. “Luke and I spent _years_ searching for those. Are you telling me he found them, and you just… purloined… them?” This time, it is definitely a laugh Mara is trying to suppress. A cold, angry laugh but a laugh nevertheless. “Oh Force, that is…” She fumbles for the words, “Oh, I would have loved to have seen those histrionics when he discovered them missing.” She presses a hand to her brow. “So, you have the _Aionomicum?_ ”

“Yes,” Rey says, feeling strangely uncomfortable. “And I’ve read them cover to cover, but there is nothing in it about how to fix the kyber crystal. But they only contain Jedi wisdom…” And now she squirms slightly, “And you know a lot about the… other side,” she finishes lamely.

Mara rests a hand on her brow. “The Dark Side aren’t big on healing anything,” she says slowly. “Much less a kyber crystal. In fact, they have the very opposite approach. For a Sith to make a lightsaber, they have to _bleed_ a crystal - hurt it, crack it, tame it like a wild beast until it yields to their will.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry Rey, but I can’t pretend to have any more wisdom on the topic than the _Aionomicum_ does.”

“Oh.”

In the grand scheme of her recent disappointments, this one is probably the least painful. The kyber crystal is unfixable. That fact is a nuisance, but compared to the revelation of her parentage, the loss of most of the Resistance, and the debacle of her self-appointed mission to bring Ben Solo back to the light, what is a broken crystal in comparison?

If only the stakes were not of galactic proportions…

Still, if the scraping sands of Jakku had instilled anything within her, it had given her resilience. “So, if I can’t fix it, I’ll just have to find another one,” she says with forced levity. “Any idea where I can do that?”

Mara hums for a moment. “Oh yeah, I know a place. Largest kyber mines in the known galaxy.” Rey sits up, a grin bursting over her features. “Just one little problem though… You blew it up a month ago.”

“Oh.”

“‘Oh’ is right,” Mara says. “Ilum isn’t the only planet with kyber crystals,” she adds gently. Rey suspects that Mara is sensing her despondency. “But it was the easiest answer.”

“Do you know of anywhere else?”

A shadow passes over Mara’s features. “No,” she says. “But I know how to get hold of that information.” She jumps to her feet, and offers Rey a hand to pull herself up. “I think it’s time myself and General Organa had a little chat.”

* * *

It takes several hours and multiple distractions (from polishing every pair of boots she owns to a mirror-like shine, and reorganising the holonovels on her bookshelf) before Mara’s thoughts are settled enough to broach a visit to Leia.

The image of that cracked kyber crystal burns behind her eyelids. She had not dared ask Rey exactly _how_ the weapon became so badly damaged. 

Mostly because she dreads the answer.

Only an act of great pain or anger could snap a kyber crystal in two. And only a powerful Force user could even attempt it… 

She groans, and buries her hands in her hair.

For her first meeting with Rey, she had sensed the girl’s boundless power. Properly cultivated, she could move mountains. But there has always been that vein of darkness and fury within her. Something Mara had recognised within herself, and felt a natural kinship with the girl. Anger was normal; healthy, even. Tranquility was for those who never knew slavery or starvation or abandonment. Darkness was not to be feared, merely monitored.

But, despite what Rey had said of Luke’s more enlightened view of the Force in his seclusion, Mara knows that, if he saw in Rey what she does, he would almost certainly have feared her.

Could he have exploded with volcanic rage and tried to take the lightsaber from her by force?

(And that is before probing into the other mystery of how Rey had found herself in battle with an opponent wielding a weapon of the old Praetorian guard…)

Mara shudders. There is no point in following either trail of thought, she tells herself. The destination will only haunt or hurt her.

Instead, she needs to focus on here. Now.

By the time she makes her way to Leia’s quarters, the sun is beginning to sink below the horizon. A few scattered Resistance members cross her path; she hears them whispering but elects to ignore it. No doubt an abridged version of her history has made its way around the base. Let them gossip all they wish.

C3PO stands outside, and lifts his arm in a mechanical wave. “Miss Jade,” he intones, “I did not know the Princess - ah, the General - was expecting you!”

“She isn’t, Threepeeio,” Mara says. “But can you let her know we need to speak. Urgently.”

She expects some banter, some resistance. Instead, the droid bows stiffly, and Mara hears him chatting away to Leia for a moment before she is ushered in.

Leia sits on her bed. Her grey braids are half-undone, and the weariness in her posture suggests she has been readying herself for bed. She nods in greeting, and motions Mara to sit. “You look tense, Mara,” Leia remarks.

“And I’ve never known you to be ready for bed this side of midnight.”

Leia chuckles. “I’m not twenty five anymore. None of us are.”

“Very true. But I didn’t come here to pass judgement on your sleeping pattern.”

“Clearly. Care to tell me what’s got you so wound up?”

Mara sighs. “Rey showed me her lightsaber today.”

Hearing Rey’s name seems to fill Leia with warmth, before Mara senses a tension grow within her too. “Still broken?”

“Kriff, Leia, it’s not just _broken_ . It’s kyber crystal has been cleaved in two!” At the puzzlement on Leia’s face, Mara shakes her head. “It takes _tremendous_ power to do that. Did you ask Rey how it happened?”

Leia frowns. “No. Did _you_?”

“I’m not sure I would like the answer,” Mara says. She rests her chin on her knees. “But that’s not the point. She wants to fix it - and for that, she needs a new kyber crystal.”

Understanding washes over Leia’s face. Absentmindedly, she plucks at the ends of her braid. “And you want to… what exactly? Take her planet hopping until she finds one?”

“Not exactly.” She takes a slow breath before continuing. “Just to one planet - somewhere small, quiet, and far, _far_ away from the First Order.”

“And which planet would that be?”

Mara throws her hands up. “No idea. I didn’t exactly memorise every planet with a kyber mine, you know.”

Something seems to click in Leia’s mind; Mara can almost sense the whirring of her thoughts, like the internal mechanics of a droid. “And how,” she asks slowly, “Do you propose to find such a planet.”

“By slicing into the old Imperial archives - there will be a list there, I’m almost certain of it.”

A harsh intake of breath is Leia’s initial response. _Absolutely not,_ screams her mind, loud enough for Mara to pick up on it. When she speaks, her tone is much more measured. “The First Order will almost certainly have cannibalised the archive,” Leia says. “You would risk it being flagged up to them. There is no way that Be- that they won’t know _why_ we are searching for that. Entire garrisons would be dispatched to any planet with the merest hint of a kyber mine. You and Rey would almost certainly be walking into a trap.” She shakes her head. “No, I forbid it. Is there no other way?”

A groan escapes Mara. “I’m not sure the alternative is any more attractive…” She presses her brow against her knees, and sighs. “The Jedi jealously guarded knowledge of kyber crystals,” she says slowly. “They didn’t even keep a full list of known kyber mines in their own databanks. Knowledge of many of them was passed down by word of mouth alone.” She lifts her head to gaze solemnly at Leia. “Sidious believed that they also kept a ledger as well. Impossible to hack, and impossible for anyone other than a member of the Jedi council to access. But the archives were left in quite a mess after Order 66. Sidious spent _years_ searching for that ledger. It drove the old tyrant mad that, even in death, the Jedi had managed to get one over on him.”

Leia pinches her brow. “So, the only other suggestion you have is to look for a book, in the old Jedi Archives, which the Emperor couldn’t find after two decades of searching?” 

“Pretty much.” Mara bites her lip. 

“And we don’t know how much of a presence the First Order have on Coruscant,” Leia finishes. “We thought Corellia would be safe, and look what happened there…”

“They have a few officers at least,” Mara concedes. “But no large military presence.”

A few seconds pass; when Leia speaks, her voice is tight. “And how exactly do you know that?”

 _Kriff_. “Well, I may have… encountered… one of their liaison officers there a week or so ago…”

“Please, _please_ tell me ‘encountered’ isn’t a euphemism for what I think it is,” Leia says on a groan, her gaze burning into Mara. 

“I saw a threat; and I neutralized it,” Mara says. A redness creeps over her neck and chest. “I know you don’t approve; but this is a _war,_ Leia. And your side wasn't exactly innocent last time either. Your father and Mon Mothma may not have gotten their own hands dirty, but they knew that their spies were doing exactly the same thing as I did on Coruscant.” She fixes Leia with a harsh stare. “Don’t worry, I didn’t paint the streets of Galactic City with his blood and send the First Order a holo message to taunt them.”

“Not five days ago, you sat here and promised me you were in control - and now I find you-”

Mara stands. “Hey, I’m in no rush to get back to Coruscant either - but right now, if you want Rey to have a proper lightsaber, then I see no other way of achieving that.” She paces the room for a moment, before dropping to her knees before Leia. “She has good instincts - she and I will find that ledger, and we’ll be back with a new kyber crystal before you know it.”

Leia blinks. “You want… to take her with you?” Genuine fear fills her face for a moment.

“I don’t exactly fly the most inconspicuous ship, Leia,” she says, “Your own words. The more trips I make, the greater the chance of someone getting suspicious. Going to Coruscant and then straight to wherever we need to be makes more sense. It’ll just look like I took a job if anyone cares to notice. But constantly jumping between here and different planets in the _Jade’s Fire_ might attract the wrong sort of attention to this system.” She brushes her thumb over Leia’s knuckles. “And given the only other choice of vessel we have is the _Falcon…_ ”

A war rages behind Leia’s eyes. The politician and strategist agreeing with Mara’s assessment; but the softer, maternal side wanting to fight. Again, Mara feels ill at ease with how quickly she has taken the girl to her heart; filling the hole left by the fall of Ben Solo. 

She suppresses that thought as Leia slowly nods. “Just promise me you’ll keep her safe.”

“I will.”

* * *

The sky is still grey with the lingering night when Mara sits in the cockpit of the _Jade’s Fire_. She triple checks the coordinates on the nav holo before slumping back in her chair.

Why did everything always come back to Coruscant? That place always seemed to bring out the worst in her, dreg up too many difficult memories, and serve as a permanent reminder of the monster Sidious had allowed her to become.

Rey had taken the news with rather more enthusiasm. Mara supposed that, after a lifetime in the desolation of the Jakku desert, even a smog-filled metropolis was an exciting prospect. 

A figure appears in the clearing - although darkness lingers, Mara can see that it is not Rey. The hair is too short and dark, and the figure is dressed in the garb of a New Republic military medic… Oh, kriff…

She sighs, and supposed that they couldn’t postpone this meeting indefinitely. Although another five years (at least) would have been preferable. She runs fingers through her hair to make it presentable, and pinches her cheeks to add some colour, before heading towards the boarding ramp.

By the time Mara reaches the ramp, Harter Kalonia is already standing at the base, wringing her hands. Proud, unflappable Harter is evidently as nervous as she is.

“Odd time in the morning for a visit,” Mara says, sitting cross legged on the steps. Her eyes flicker over the other woman. “You look well Harter. Rebellion suits you.” When no reply is forthcoming, she adds, “Your timing isn’t great, Doc - I’m actually heading off on a mission in a few hours.”

Harter nods. “Leia told me.”

Mara stands, and jerks her head towards the hull. “Want to come on-board?” She watches Harter bite her lip, before silently following her into the _Jade’s Fire_. Even without the benefit of Force sensitivity, it would be patently obvious that something has Harter conflicted. She guides her towards the longue, and watches her perch stiffly on the couch.

A few minutes of stilted quiet follow, before Mara changes tact. “You know, I picked up a case of Sunberry wine before I arrived.” 

“Oh no. Absolutely not. Especially after last time.”

“Which part - the hangover or the part with my head between your legs?”

The doctor narrows her eyes. “Seems you haven’t picked up any manners in the last decade either,” she mutters. “But, in answer to your question. Both. Neither were worth the morning after regret.”

“The lady doth offend me. I happen to have _very_ pleasurable memories of that evening.” She sees Harter’s breath quicken, but her expression remains unmoving as stone. “So, if you’re not here to flirt… Why are you here?”

Harter sinks into the couch; the lack of her usual poise troubles Mara more than she would care to admit. “I need… Kriff, how I explain…” She clears her throat. “Leia tells me that you're headed on a mission to the Core?”

Clearly if she is the topic of conversation between Leia and Harter, then the doctor isn’t as indifferent towards her presence as she tries to portray. Their liaison had been brief, passionate - and ended far too bitterly. Mara hums non-committedly. “Yes - hopefully only briefly. Why do you ask? Want me to pick up a souvenir for you?” She winks.

“Actually, yes. In a manner of speaking.” At Mara’s surprised expression, Harter sighs. “What I am about to tell you… This is breaking the very oath of my profession…” she shakes her head. “I need… I need you to get hold of some Hadeira serum for me.”

Mara lets out a low whistle. “Not exactly something I can pick up in Galactic City market,” she says. Harter shoots her a withering look. “Are you going to make me ask why you need it?”

“Are you going to make me tell you?”

“I think I can guess. You have a pilot with bloodburn?”

Harter nods, running her hands over the cushions and trying to look anywhere but at Mara.

“I mean, my knowledge of New Republic military law is probably a bit lax… but doesn’t bloodburn mean an automatic grounding?”

“Are you going to help me or not?” Harter snaps, tugging a hand through her dark hair. “Kriff, Mara - do you have any idea how hard it was for me to come here and ask this of you? And since when have you ever quibbled over the legality of an action?” Her voice grows louder, and a purple flush fills her cheeks. Her body positively pulses with anger.

“This isn’t a question of legality; this is a question of morals, Harter,” she replies in an even tone. “You’ve always been one of the most steadfast, moral people I know-”

“Unsurprising, given your career choice.”

 _That_ provokes a spike of annoyance, but Mara pushes it aside. “Now Harter, I might have broken your heart, but I have _never_ disrespected you. Please grant me the same courtesy.” 

A curt nod is her response. “Fine.”

“Good.” She folds her arms over her chest. “You know, I never thought I would see the day when Harter Kalonia was comfortable with the moral grey. Age changes us all, it seems.” Before the doctor can retort, Mara raises a placating hand. “Apologies, that was perhaps uncalled for.” A question prods at her mind, and she says hesitantly, “Does Leia know about this?”

“No - and I _need_ to keep it that way.” Harter reaches forward, and places a hand on Mara’s shoulder. “I don’t like this anymore than you do, but the reality is - we are basically running a rebellion on fumes. Every resource, every woman and man is going to be stretched to their limit. Including you. And this… pilot… may be an idiot, but he’s an idiot we currently cannot spare when our numbers are so few. So, are you going to help me or not?”

Mara grunts, and nods. 

“Thank you.” Harter gives her a smile that might almost pass for genuine. 

“Don’t thank me… if Leia finds out and kills me, I swear to the Maker my Force ghost will haunt you until your last breath.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” And as the two women shake hands, Mara wonders just far she is willing to go in the name of the Resistance…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muse this week: Crucify by Tori Amos.
> 
> I've also recently set up a [Twitter](https://twitter.com/AndrinaNightsh1) account. Come and say hello!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mara and Rey bond over dinner, and begin part one of their Fetch Quest™. Dreams continue to plague the Supreme Leader - maybe Hux’s suggested day trip wouldn’t go amiss? Our star-crossed space idiots endure a brief reunion that is perhaps the prelude to something more substantial…

Every night now, Kylo dreams of the Jedi Library.

Every night, he watches Ben Solo follow Skywalker (a younger version of the man, who has yet to contemplate kinslaying), before that mysterious red-headed woman whisks him away and fills his belly with cakes and treats.

And every morning he wakes puzzled, with a familiar ache in his chest.

Part of Kylo, loathe as he as is to admit it, almost longs for the simple torture of his nightmares of old. Pain, violence, degradation had been his nocturnal companions for as long as he could remember. There was no wracking of memories, no mystery associated with those dreams. They hurt, and then they were over. The waking world was equally as painful, and a dreamless sleep was a rare and desirable bounty.

At least for the last few nights, Skywalker’s ghost had been absent. It would be too much to hope that his uncle had merely enjoyed some cruel fun at his expense, and was off to spend the rest of his afterlife finding less inflammatory hobbies.

But it was a hope Kylo would cling to nonetheless.

By the time he has downed his third cup of caf, and read yet another pointless report - kriff, how many analysts does the First Order have to product such output? - Kylo feels an overwhelming fatigue. 

And it is not even lunchtime.

An alert from the door comm causes him to start, and he groans. “Who is it?”

“Supreme Leader,” comes the annoyingly familiar tones of Hux, “Might I have a brief audience with yourself?”

 _Kriff_. The General had been purposefully avoiding Kylo since their little… altercation… on Kijimi, although Hux’s rage had been palpable in the Force. However, the figure behind the door seems almost… tranquil?... and that immediately sets Kylo’s nerves on edge.

The doorway slides open, and Hux walks into the Supreme Leader’s office. A smile is painted upon his face. Kylo forces his own features into a mask. “General Hux,” he says. “To what do I owe your presence?” 

Hux steps forward, and rests a hand upon the chair. He hesitates, as if waiting for permission. A childish part of Kylo is tempted to keep him waiting - but instead, he gestures for the man to sit. 

“Have you been keeping abreast of the reports surrounding the death of one of our officers on Coruscant?” he begins in that irksome tone.

Kylo manages to bite down on his smirk. _This_ report he has actually perused - although there is scant evidence and nothing new, he finds some intrigue in the whole situation. And it certainly makes less dry reading than troop movements and budgetary reports. “Indeed - although I was unaware of any developments in the last day.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Unless, of course, new information has come to light?”

“Alas, no,” Hux replies. “Although our officers on Coruscant have received assurance from the local Security Force that the culprit is being, ah- _vigorously_ sought.” He leans forward in his chair. “I have actually come to talk about Captain Skerris’ work - you will be aware, of course, that he was our liaison with the Sienar-Jaemus Corporation?” Kylo nods; and tries to sense exactly where Hux’s line of inquiry is heading. “Skerris had been negotiating the purchase of further vessels for the fleet. Negotiations which have unfortunately stalled with his passing, and the death of Supreme Leader Snoke as well.”

“And you feel we are… inadequately resourced?” Kylo asks. He mimics the general’s stance, and rests his chin on steepled fingers.

“Additional firepower can only accelerate our goals,” Hux says. “But as I say, without Skerris those plans for expansion of the fleet have not yet come to fruition.”

Kylo sees in his mind Hux’s manoeuvre. It reminds him of a Dejarik board - pieces shifting, plays established, just waiting for the moment and conditions to strike. 

(He ignores the unwelcome nostalgia when he thinks of the game; and pushes Han Solo’s face from his mind before the thought becomes rooted.)

“I see. And none of his aides were up to the task of continuing negotiations?”

Hux shakes his head. “Had it not been for the ah, _unfortunate_ timing of your predecessor’s passing, then perhaps this could have continued with minimal disruption. But the executives have been somewhat… hesitant, to engage with us.”

Ah. _Now_ the play becomes apparent. Kylo debates for a moment whether to simply allow the situation to evolve, or to make it clear he has deduced what Hux is trying to do.

Unbidden, a growl of _ <If they know your game plan, change it> _ echoes in his brain. He frowns, and shakes his head. As much as he detests taking political advice from a half-feral walking carpet (and his side still smarts from said beast’s bowcaster wound), it has always proved a sound strategy for Dejarik. 

“And what do you propose to do about it, General Hux?”

“I believe a high-level presence at the negotiating table may ease some of their anxieties,” he says a touch smugly. “Allegiant General Pryde still has some contacts at the Corporation from the old days.”

Of _course_ Pryde would be involved. Kylo tries (and fails) to mask a grimace. Pryde and Hux, Hux and Pryde - the two had become nigh on inseparable these last weeks. Their presence practically reeks of treachery, and Hux is either too naive, or simply too ambitious, to care that he is little more than a puppet for Pryde to replay his glory days in the employ of the Emperor. 

It would be utterly tempting to simply execute them both - any charges of treason would require only the merest elaboration given their demeanours and actions - but Kylo suspects _that_ would be a poor political move. Since his ascension, Kylo had barely consolidated his power. Removing his two most senior officers in a single act seems like an excellent means of provoking insurrection. 

Snoke had an almost supernatural mystique in his favour. Kylo is but a man. The most powerful Force user alive, but mortal nonetheless. It grates that, despite the power to burn the galaxy, he still feels so _impotent._

He spends a few seconds pondering his options. Allowing Pryde and Hux to go to Coruscant would give him a few days peace from their cloying presence, and allow him to actually _think_ and act. But the idea of them together, without his oversight, on anything more essential to the running of the First Order than menu choice feels suicidal.

Besides, there is more on Coruscant than just the headquarters of Sienar-Jaemus… 

“Then, contact Allegiant General Pryde,” Kylo says, “And _we_ shall set a course for Coruscant.”

“ _We_?” Hux inclines his head.

“As you say, General Hux - a high level presence at the negotiating table will certainly smooth over proceedings. What higher authority would I send?” He enjoys a smirk at the General’s dumbstruck appearance. 

“Of course,” Hux splutters. He places his hands on the desk to stand, but hesitates. Then, an oddly complacent look settles over his features. He sinks back to the chair. “There was one further matter I wanted to discuss with you?” Kylo motions for him to continue; he tries to imbue the gesture with as much impatience as possible. “About the scavenger girl…”

 _Her name is Rey_ , he thinks, trying to hide the sheer _longing_ in his eyes.

“I am curious… She managed to assassinate Supreme Leader Snoke… Yet, we have not put out a bounty on her.” Hux clears his throat. “Nor to reveal that she was responsible. Why?”

To be honest, Kylo has been anticipating this issue to crop up much earlier. _Kriff_ , why had he panicked in the throne room and blamed Rey for Snoke’s murder? That thought positively chokes him now. 

The lie tumbles from his lips easily. “She only has the power that we give her. I will not make her a rallying point for the Resistance.”

Hux seems to contemplate that statement for a moment. “But Supreme Leader,” he says in a tone dangerously close to cajoling, “If we offer a sizable enough reward, eventually one of her own may even turn on her. Three million credits-”

With a flick of his wrist, Kylo freezes the words on Hux’s tongue. “As I said, I will not give her any power over m- over the First Order.” His tone grows increasingly menacing, “And this is the last we will speak on the matter.” 

* * *

Takodana and its lush forests had rendered Rey breathless when she first saw them. The infinite oceans of Ahch-To had been similarly spell-binding. But now, as the _Jade’s Fire_ hovers over the sprawling metropolis of Coruscant, she cannot find the same level of passion stirring within her.

The air is thick with smog - not the soft and fluffy clouds over a green planet. Instead of trees, edifices rise from the horizon, all flashing lights and angular structures. It is a million miles away from the sterile wastelands of Jakku; but Rey decides that, if she has to have a preference regarding planets, she prefers them green and teeming with life.

Rey of Jakku, orphan scavenger, allowing herself to have _preferences?_ She shakes her head and almost chuckles from the insanity of it all. 

In the pilot’s seat, Mara is projecting precisely nothing. No excitement, no frustration, just a blankness where her emotions should be. That she feels the need to shield unnerves Rey - not that Mara isn’t entitled to the privacy of her own mind, but the reasons behind her disquietude gives Rey pause for concern.

Almost the moment the vessel had entered hyperspace, Mara had dragged Rey into a room at the rear of the vessel. A room, she had been startled to learn, was entirely devoted to the storage of clothing.

“Coruscant is one of the most populous places in the entire galaxy,” she had told Rey. “Billions of people, thousands of species, and inhabitants of millions of planets come to Galactic City every year. The Coruscanti are the most jaded people you will ever meet, but if you walk around dressed like that,” she waved a hand over Rey’s grey tunic and leggings, “You are going to stick out. Assuming of course that the First Order haven’t plastered every wall with your face and an outrageous reward for your capture.”

Rey had blinked at that. Niima Outpost had the occasional hand-scrawled poster advertising rewards for those who had skipped out on debts, and every so often a bounty hunter might pass through the outpost, but the idea of a galactic wide manhunt was another scale altogether.

Especially if she was now the target.

Except she couldn’t envisage Ben - kriff it, _Kylo -_ sinking to the same tactics as Unkar Plutt. At their last interaction, before the bond had severed, he had looked at her with sadness and longing. This was not a man out for blood. This was someone broken and desperately alone.

Well, Rey mused with no small amount of bitterness, he had wanted the throne. Loneliness was a fitting price.

Mara interrupted these thoughts by throwing a handful of garments at her. “Try these on.”

All were various permutations of black and grey: thick shirts, heavy ponchos, and long trousers with enough pockets and compartments to store a dozen vibroblades. A frown appeared on Rey’s lips. “Don’t you have anything… Green? Or blue?”

“I want you to blend it, not stand out,” Mara countered, but tossed a thin shawl the colour of the ocean her way as a concession.

An hour later, after much deliberating on Mara’s part, Rey found herself clad in a black shirt and trousers, with the beautiful blue shawl draped over her shoulders and around her head. “Perfect,” Mara said. “You could easily pass for a Chandrillian.”

The woman staring back at her in the mirror looked… ordinary, untroubled by the fate of the galaxy weighing upon her shoulders. After a few weeks of hearty meals with the Resistance, her cheeks were round, her waist fuller. At Mara’s suggestion, she had even worn her hair down. It would be a nuisance if she had to fight, but for a moment, Rey enjoyed the sensation of feeling _beautiful._

* * *

The streets heave with people the moment Rey and Mara exit the spaceport. So much bustle, so much noise, the air as thick with smog… Rey’s brain aches from the constant stimulation. She had thought the _Falcon_ to be crowded after Crait; that was desolation compared to Coruscant. 

At least if someone bumped into you on the _Falcon_ , an apology was forthcoming. Within five minutes, Rey has had three near collisions with other pedestrians, none of whom even acknowledge her, much less express any semblance of regret. She grits her teeth to snap at the fourth person, a man dressed in rich silks whose throat drips with enough jewels to feed Niima outpost for the next century, but Mara lays a placating hand on her arm.

“Welcome to city living, kid. Just keep your head down - we don’t want any unwelcome attention.” Then Mara tugs on Rey’s sleeve, and points to a monolith in the distance; a building at least ten times as tall as the cliff-face on Ahch-To, with five spires rising above the roof. “The old Jedi temple,” she whispers. 

Rey’s jaw slackens. She had not been sure quite _what_ to expect, although she had a vague notion of it looking much like the temple at the summit of Ahch-To: a stone edifice utterly incongruous with the durasteel and flashing lights of the city around it.

 _This_ was something else.

She takes a few steps forward, but Mara lays a hand on her shoulder. “This way,” she says, and tries to guide Rey down a small side street.

“But, I thought we were going…?”

“To the Temple?” Mara nods. “But only under cover of darkness. We have a few hours yet.”

Rey wonders if it _ever_ darkens on Coruscant - every building seems to pulse with light of a dozen different colours, signs of flashing neon. “Where are we going now?” She asks as they snake down another smaller street. The throng of people begins to thin, and the air is heavy with the scent of food. Her stomach growls expectantly.

“It’s dinner time. There’s a very discreet little restaurant just round the corner that I think you’ll love.”

“But we have rations-” 

Mara looks almost scandalised. “Rey, Galactic City - for all its faults, of which there are many - has the best cuisine in the Core Worlds. We are _not_ having rations for dinner.” She lifts a hand before her pupil can object further. “And before you ask - _I_ am paying. Consider it a condition of my continued tuition.”

They stop before the doorway of a small building with green frontage. Compared to the gleaming structures flanking it, it looks almost _shabby._ Laughter echoes from within. 

“Keep close,” Mara murmurs. “And let me do the talking.”

* * *

A few murmured words and the exchange of credits later, a Neimodian water dressed all in white had bowed and swept them towards a semi-private enclave in the rear of the rear of the establishment. Mara can feel a dozen sets of eyes bore into them as they take their seats. Around half of them she recognises - smugglers, a spice dealer, and a few less savoury souls. She watches Rey the shawl more fully over her hair. Mara unclips the blaster from her thigh, and lays it on the threadbare tablecloth. 

The waiter reappears and begins to drone a list of specials. Smoked nerf, Chandrillian seafood, grain salad… He then turns expectantly to Rey. She flashes him an uneasy smile, and looks to her mentor.

Mara clears her throat. “I’ll have the crab rotoven,” she says, and gives Rey a reassuring nod. “And you?”

“Oh, I’ll take whatever is left,” she replies. The waiter shoots her a look of incredulity, and Mara cringes. Of course a scavenger from the arse-end of the Western Reaches would be utterly naive to the working of a Coruscanti restaurant. 

“My dear girl,” the waiter sneers, “I can assure that all our food is prepared fresh to your order, and-”

“She’ll have the grain salad and the nerf casserole,” Mara says, and waves him dismissively. “And a bottle of Sunberry wine for the table if you have any.” Once the Neiomodian is out of earshot, she sighs. “Sorry, it didn’t occur to me that you’d never been to a place like this before.”

“Oh, I’ve been to Maz Kanata’s place,” she says with a frown, running her fingers over the prongs of her fork. From this angle, Mara can see a few fingerprints on the handle. She is half-tempted to demand another, but the girl is already squirming, and she does not want to provide another reason to embarrass her. “But Han… He dealt with that.” Rey’s eyes seem to dart around the dim room. “Mara… Why did you bring me here?”

“Because this place doesn’t do tables for one,” she replied. “It was either you or a complete stranger, and I’d wager the conversation to be more pleasant from your end.”

The waiter reappears, and plonks a dust-covered bottle in the centre of the table. Mara uncorks it with a pop, and pours them both a generous measure. She lifts her own glass, and motions for Rey to do the same before she clinks them together. She allows the violet liquid to swirl around before she gulps at it.

Rey regards the drink with suspicion. She sniffs at the glass for a moment, before a look of revulsion passes over her face and she pushes it aside. 

“You don’t drink?” Mara asks.

She shakes her head. “My parents…” her voice grows quiet. “They drank.”

“Leia said that your parents were dead.”

Rey nods; her eyes are suspiciously moist. “Yes. They… sold me…” She looks away, and becomes fascinated by a stray thread on her sleeve.

The girl’s despondency smashes into Mara; her own eyes begin to sting. Suddenly, Rey’s aversion to the wine makes painful sense. “It can be dreadfully addictive,” she tells her. “But not everyone suffers from that.” She brushes her fingers over Rey’s sleeve, and pretends to look away as the girl lifts a napkin to quell the running of her nose. “Would you feel more comfortable with water?” At her nod, Mara snaps her fingers to attract the waiter’s attention.

“Sorry,” Rey says, her voice thick. She folds her hands in her lap. “I only found out recently.” A grim laugh escapes her. “Fifteen years I spent on that hell-hole of a planet; waiting for them to come back because I couldn’t admit to myself that they didn’t love me, didn’t even _want_ me. I was a fool who wasted her life.”

“And I was the Emperor's Hand,” Mara replies gently. “A role that died the moment he did. I had to learn who Mara Jade was, seperate from that. Those years I spent discovering myself were the most important time in my life. I'll be interested to know who you really are, Rey of Jakku. If we're still alive in five years, let's catch up and find out.”

Luckily, the waiter returns at that moment and sets down their meals. Rey blows her nose loudly, which provokes a snort from him.

Mara reaches grips the sleeve of his white uniform, speckled with sauce, and says in a low voice, “If you can’t at least _pretend_ to be polite, good luck working without your hands.” She grins wolfishly at him; and sudden his derision is replaced with a contrite expression.

“Apologies!” He mumbles before scuttling away to the safety of the kitchens. 

A look of puzzlement fills Rey’s face. She pokes at the grain salad with her fork. “People eat sand here?” 

“No, it’s wheatgrain,” Mara says gently. There is a small jug of fragrant red sauce beside the plate. She drizzles the contents over the salad. “Try it - I promise it doesn’t taste of sand. But if you don’t like it,” she hovers her hand over the glistening flesh of the rotovan crab meat, “Then we can swap.”

Rey scoops a small portion of grain and vegetables onto her fork. Her sceptical expression melts away as she tastes the food for the first time. A soft moan escapes her. 

“You like?”

She nods. “I’ve never tasted anything like it!” Rey devours the salad with vigour, and then attacks the nerf casserole with similar eagerness. Each mouthful is met with a groan of delight. By the end of the meal, a few grains stick to her forearms, and there is a smear of gravy on her cheek, but she looks satisfied. “Thank you, Mara,” she says, lifting a napkin to wipe her mouth and face.

“You’re welcome. Now, are you familiar with the concept of _dessert?”_

When a platter of elegant fruit tarts is placed on the table, their berries glistening like jewels, Rey’s eyes widen. Mara selects two, and watches as the girl shovels it whole into her mouth. This time, the sound she makes is positively euphoric.

Once their meal is complete, Rey sits back and rubs her stomach. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so full in my life,” she says, and Mara feels a pang of sympathy. “Thank you.” Then, she bites her lip. “You didn’t answer my question. Why did you really bring me here?” She inclines her head backwards slightly. 

Mara sighs. “I don’t suppose you’ll believe it if I say that I just wanted to treat you?” She curls her lip. “Well, you’re right. I have a… side mission, if you will,” she admits. “I’m hoping to run into a contact while we’re here.”

“Leia gave you a side mission?” Rey shakes her head. “No - this is something different.”

“I can’t say any more,” Mara says, “But I swear, it is for the Resistance.” She is spared from further elaboration when the door slides open, and a familiar Rodian strolls into the restaurant. 

His beady eyes seem to fall on them. Mara gives a subtle nod, and he reciprocates the gesture. 

“Stay here a moment,” she murmurs to Rey, and reaches for her blaster. She clips it back to her thigh and stands. One hand rests on Rey’s shoulder, and she leans close enough to whisper. “Keep one hand on the lightsaber at all times, and unless they start shooting, stay exactly where you are. Understood.”

Wide-eyed, her pupil nods. There is no fear - only curiosity. But those questions can wait until later.

The Rodian has taken a seat at the counter, and a glass of brandy is being pressed into his hands by the barman. His own blaster lies slung across his lap. 

Mara slides into the vacant seat at his side. “Dhoortherl Fiika. Long time no speak.”

Dhoortherl clicks his tongue impatiently. _“Heard you were hiding out in the Outer Rim, Mara Jade. First Order had you running scared. Finally decided to leave your hiding place?”_

“Clearly you need better sources,” she retorts. Her gaze flicks back to Rey, and then to the weapon Dhoortherl still holds close. The press of her own blaster against her thigh is a comfort, and she fingers the handle. “Prey hides. Remember, I was once the Emperor’s hand. I was the ultimate predator.”

 _“Was.”_ He tilts his glass towards her in a mock toast. _“Shall we skip the banter and you just tell me what you want?”_

She leans on the bar, and rests her chin on her fist. “Hadeira serum,” she says.

Dhoortherl rasps a laugh. _“_ _Business or pleasure?”_

“Business - my ah… client… needs as much of it as I can get my hands on.”

 _“Won’t be easy to find that._ _Won’t be cheap either_ , _”_ Dhoortherl says. He swirls around on his stool, and his eyes drift to the rear of the restaurant. Mara follows his gaze as it rests on Rey. She has a glass in her hand, and is taking a slow sip of her water. _“Pretty, for a humanoid. Young too.”_

“And completely off limits,” Mara says warningly. She tries to shield her disgust from Rey - her pupil’s expression remains unchanged.

He guffaws. _“Forgot you pretend to have morals. Fine, credits will do.”_ His hand slips into the pocket of his dark trousers; Mara tenses for a moment, until he slides a small communicator over to her. _“One day, ten thousand credits.”_

* * *

Her belly full and an uneasy curiosity bubbling within her, Rey follows Mara as they leave the restaurant. She wants to pry, to ask more about the mysterious Rodian, about the side mission… But she suspects Mara wouldn’t divulge the information anyway. 

Perhaps it was better to remain ignorant. 

The streets have not quietened even with sunset; if anything, the crowds have grown thicker. Brighter lights, more noise, less manners. Even the number of speeders overhead seems to have doubled. If Galactic City by day was overstimulating, then its nocturnal version was sensory overload. Rey again feels an ache behind her eyes.

They weave a convoluted path to the Jedi Temple. The scenic route, Mara had called it with a characteristic wink. But there was nothing beautiful about it - just an endless ocean of people and sound. 

Something pricks at Rey’s consciousness - not the familiar thrum she had associated with her now defunct Force bond with Kylo; it only adds to the mounting disquiet within her. Her eyes dart around, frantically scanning for any hint of him in the crowds.

But no hulking figures in black appear. 

The sensation does not fade; but luckily the ebb and flow of the city provides Rey with sufficient distraction to ignore it. _Please, please stay dead,_ she whispers into her mind. Her dreams of the last few nights have been pleasant, forgettable and utterly devoid of Ben Solo. Of Kylo Ren.

Eventually the crowds thin; the flashing lights of the city fade. It is not _quiet,_ not like the gaping silence of the desert, or the solitude of Ahch-To, but she supposes this is as sedate as Galactic City will ever be. 

As they approach the Jedi Temple, clinging to the shadows, Rey sees the cracks in the building’s facade. It seems to reek of disuse and something else, something darker.

“You feel it too?” Mara murmurs. Rey nods. “I need to warn you, Rey - this is not a happy place we are entering. Grave sins were committed here, and those acts leave stains in the very fabric of the building.” She holds out her hand. “How are your climbing skills?”

“I used to scavenge in old Star Destroyers,” Rey says; she does not mean it as a boast, but Mara’s mouth curves into a smile nonetheless.

“Excellent - because we’re not going in via the front door.”

* * *

‘Not via the front door’ translates to ‘via a secret tunnel and an awkward climb up a dust-filled air vent’. Mara goes first, a torch clipped to her belt illuminating their path. Rey would be able to follow with relative ease if her hair and shawl were not getting in the way. She regrets not tying her hair back before they begin the ascent when stray locks keep finding their way into her eyes and her mouth.

Even the pretty blue shawl seems to limit her movement; for a mad, frustrating moment, she contemplates ripping it off and dropping it to the bottom of the shaft. But scavenger instincts die hard; and it would be a poor show of gratitude to Mara if she simply discarded the item because of inconvenience.

After what seems like an hour of climbing, Mara scrambles onto a small ledge. She pulls Rey up behind her, and begins to dust off the debris on her arms and legs. “I don’t think anyone has cleaned this tunnel in the last century,” she grouses. “It wasn’t this dusty thirty years ago!”

They crawl along another narrow tunnel for a few more minutes. Rey winches as her sleeve snags on a protruding screw. “I think I’ve torn your shirt,” she says apologetically. 

“Small price to pay for galactic peace, kid. Now,” Mara says, tapping an unremarkable panel on the wall. “Prepare to be amazed!”

The panel opens with an angry hiss of hair, and pale light floods the tunnel. Mara disappears, and Rey follows.

The first thing Rey notices is the vast emptiness of the space; light falls in through a round window at the far end, but the rest of the room is gaping darkness aside from the illumination from Mara’s torch. The air here is also thick with dust and a sense of decay.

“Welcome to the Jedi library, kid,” Mara says. She waves her torch around as if to punctuate her point.

Any grandeur this place must have had is buried beneath a layer of debris. Smashed pillars and statues line the walls; vast bookcases taller than the trees of Ajan Kloss lie toppled on the floor. All around are scattered and torn parchments, and cracked holobooks. Every breath is thick and choked with decay.

“What happened here?” Rey asks; unconsciously rubbing over her heart. “This whole room feels…” she struggles for the words, “Like it’s in… agony?”

Mara grimaces. “Death, and lots of it.” She shakes her head for a moment. “But that’s a story for later. Right now, we have work to do.” 

Their footsteps echo like thunder as Mara leads them to an enclave at the opposite end of the room. The destruction only seems to worsen the deeper into the library they are. Not even the vermin of the city collect here. With every breath, the Force seems to weep and moan, and that constriction around Rey’s heart only tightens. 

“Here,” Mara says, stopping before a nondescript bookcase. She flickers her torch to a small generator perched on the wall, it’s casing split open and wiring spilling out. “What does this look like to you?”

Rey purses her lips for a moment, roves over it with hungry scavenger’s eyes. “A shock field generator?” 

“I think so too.”

“But why-”

“Because,” Mara says with mounting confidence, “You don’t want just anyone blundering into this particular area. Restricted access for highly sensitive material.” A grin fills her face. “Time to put those scavenger instincts to use!”

The dust here is even thicker, if that were possible, although mercifully most of the books remain relatively intact. Only a few loose sheets of parchment dot around. Mara inspects each one carefully before discarding it.

“There must be a thousand books here,” Rey says, half-irritated and half-awed. She grabs the nearest one - a small leatherbound volume with no title on the cover, and begins to flick through it. She enjoys the brush of the pages against her fingers. Even in the faint glimmer of torch light, it looks to contain only obscure drawings. 

A shrill sound pierces the air; Rey starts. Her hand automatically reaches for the lightsaber and ignites it. In the purple glow, she sees Mara fumble in her trouser pocket, and pull out the communicator. 

“Damn, that’s fast, even for Dhoortherl,” she says, and shrugs her shoulders apologetically. “Seems I have a parcel to pick up.” She puffs her cheeks for a moment. “I don’t know how much time we have. Will you be fine staying here whilst I sort that?”

“You want to leave?” Rey asks incredulously. Her arm remembers Unkar Plutt’s bruising grip, as she watched her parents vanish. _They said they’d come back too..._

“Want to? Nope,” Mara replies; her expression is conflicted. “But this is something I _need_ to do.” Her hand reaches for Rey’s shoulder. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours; but I daren’t keep Dhoortherl waiting. His impatience is legendary - if I’m lucky, he’ll only double the price.”

“And if you’re unlucky?”

Mara’s mouth twists. “Well, there are a lot of people, here and in the rest of the Core, who would pay a lot of money for a chance at my head.” 

Rey nods. “Then go.”

Her mentor sighs. “Listen, Rey,” she says seriously. “If I am not back by tomorrow night… Go straight to the spaceport. Don’t take the _Jade’s Fire -_ assume both it and I are compromised - and get on the first transport to Bespin. Find Lando Calrissian - tell him you’re a friend of mine, and Leia’s. He will get you back to Ajan Kloss.” Her mouth forms a hard line as she presses a credit chip into Rey’s hand. “That should more than cover your passage.” 

Mara pulls up the hood of her scarf, before turning and enfolding a startled Rey in her arms. “Stay safe, kid.”

Once Mara has vanished, and her footsteps faded to nothingness, Rey sighs and slumps down against the bookshelf. She grabs the next tome. “Guess I have a long night ahead of me,” she mutters to herself, as she resumes flicking through it.

* * *

When the _Finaliser_ shudders out of hyperspace in the Corusca Sector, Kylo feels something tugging at the edge of his mind. Not a voice, like Snoke’s oily presence; nor the thrumming of his bond with Rey.

He massages his temple, and eventually the sensation recedes. 

Hux and Pryde seem to catch the motion, and he feels their eyes burning into him. Fine, let them stare. Rumours of Kylo Ren’s mental instability were commonplace in the First Order even before he became Supreme Leader. None had dared speak them to his face then - Kylo knows that his rages were legendary in their scope - and they will not do so now. There is something almost soothing about Hux’s loathing for him, something familiar that centres him momentarily.

 _What am I doing?_ Kylo asks himself for the thousandth time as he gazes out at the hanger. He watches Hux commandeer a shuttle and depart for Coruscant. Their meeting with the representatives of Sienar-Jaemus is not scheduled for another twelve standard hours; whatever the general plans to do with his time, Kylo cannot bring himself to care. If anything, he feels the snap of jealousy. Hux can disappear amongst the crowds of Coruscant - just another anonymous face amidst billions of others.

The name Kylo Ren has echoed for years in worlds from the deep Core to the fringes of the Outer Rim; a figure to inspire terror, now the most powerful and notorious man in the galaxy. The mask had concealed his visage, but it was never about anonymity. It had been a symbol to inspire fear, to invoke the legacy of another… Now, it is gone.

 _But…_ Kylo muses, his face is not yet well known. And, as he gazes out at the grey planet before him, dawn is yet to peer above the horizon. The streets will not be empty - the ebb and flow of people on Coruscant is unceasing no matter the hour - but they may be quieter. Perhaps an hour or two away from the fleet, from the endless stares and the monotony of his role as Supreme Leader will clear his mind?

But, as Kylo orders his own shuttle to be prepared, he knows deep in his marrow that is not what draws him to Coruscant… 

* * *

Even in the greyness before dawn, the spaceport is teeming with pilots and travellers. Kylo pulls the cowl more fully over his head. Few offer him a second glance, too preoccupied with their own concerns.

He exhales a slow breath. Away from the _Finalizer_ , the ill wishes and whispers that seem to haunt his every step, he almost feels _free._ Like that wave of relief crashing over him as he gazed upon Snoke’s smouldering remains in the throne room of the _Supremacy._

But that is not what draws him here. Something tugs at him again; a chord of fate whose intent he is powerless to resist. The Supreme Leader is beholden to no man. But, as he vanishes among the throng of Galactic City, he obeys the call in his mind. Each step is mechanical, as though he has surrendered control of his body. He neither fears nor angers. 

Past revellers and reprobates and everyone in between; past heaving cantinas and empty restaurants; past the side streets and thoroughfares, Kylo walks, eyes unseeing. 

Except for the towering, ruined structure in the distance… The pull towards the temple grows stronger; every nerve alight, every other thought purged from his mind. At least, until he is only a few streets away. 

Something snaps his attention, and he stops dead before a shop. No, a bakery… The neon tubing is cracked, and the frontage flickers in and out of life, but there is no mistaking this place from his dream.

Why he enters, Kylo later cannot recount. His feet move of their own accord. There are no customers save himself, and only a serving droid behind the counter who regards him with polite disinterest. Kylo’s eyes drink in the wares on display: fresh loaves of five-blossom bread; decadent air cake; glistening jewel fruit tarts. In the centre of the display is a tray of sticky Coruscant spiced cakes; his tongue tingles with the memory of their taste.

His actions become automatic - he purchases a box of four, and stuffs them into the satchel concealed beneath his cowl. He leaves the shop, and steps back into the street.

The Jedi Temple looms in the distance, cracked and rotten.

 _What are you thinking?_ _Why are you here?_

His feet continue to carry him towards the temple, and his thoughts remain clouded. What purpose can be found in coming here, in abandoning a fleet that would just as happily abandon him here as assassinate him? 

The siren pull only grows louder as he climbs the staircase. Pale light streams in through cracked windows, and motes of dust float in the air, thick and choking.

This place looked even more desolate than he remembered from his dreams. Pain, torment seem to bleed from the walls themselves. Even buildings have memories; dark deeds cling to them like a shadow. And there are few deeds darker than a massacre. 

An involuntary shudder passes through Kylo. _Why did you come here?,_ he asks himself again. Seeking a memory? Following a siren call? Or simply out of boredom?

Pain blooms behind his eyes; he rubs a gloved hand over his face. 

_“This place is built on a vergence,”_ he hears the voice of a much younger Luke Skywalker whispering into his mind, _“A place of powerful concentration in the Force.”_

Kylo blinks, and he feels his mind snap back to himself, like awareness after a dream. “Kriff,” he mutters. The ludicrousness of his situation crashes over him, and he chuckles darkly. His laugh echoes off the walls, sinister and chilling.

_What a fool you are, Ben Solo..._

It takes a moment to realise the name he has used for himself; another moment to recognise the strange thrum around him, and the stillness of the air. His every nerve feels raw and exposed, and breath stills in his chest. He knows the bond is beginning to open…

Rey does not appear immediately; but her presence is unmistakable. Kylo closes his eyes, and takes a moment just to _feel_ her; to relish in the familiarity of their connection, of being tethered to another person.

A heartbeat later, she is standing before him.

Rey’s expression is a mixture of startled and disappointed. She grits her teeth, her chin juts out defiantly, and _there_ she is. Not the passive, docile Empress of his nocturnal fantasies, but his very real, and very _furious,_ scavenger. 

“I suppose you did warn me that you wanted to ‘have your say,” Rey mutters; though her posture is defensive, he can hear the resignation in her voice. “I was hoping that this… _connection_ ,” she gestures vaguely between them, “Had been severed. It’s been quiet these last few weeks without you.” Her tone turns savage as she adds, “It felt good to be alone in my own mind.”

Hurt crashes over him like a wave. “You haven’t been as alone as you think, Rey. And as for this… bond… I don’t think it will ever be possible to sever.” He feels oddly centred, safe, knowing that there is a permanence to their connection. The brush of her mind, her soul against his, is almost _intimate._ “Even in death, I think we would still be connected.”

The thought is not new to Rey; but it causes a leaden weight to sink in her gut. He feels the echo of her disappointment.

She turns away, her head bowed. “Just leave me alone, Kylo. I can’t do this with you now. Or ever.”

“So it’s Kylo again?”

Before, she had called him Ben. A name he tried to smoother, a feeble boy he had tried to bury. But that name on her lips felt _right._ A pity he had not realised it before. Let the rest of the galaxy call him Kylo Ren. 

But all he wants - now so desperately - is to be _Ben_ to her once more.

She nods curtly. “Or would you prefer ‘ _Supreme Leader’_?” He grimaces, and through the bond, he knows that she is taking pleasure in his discomfort.

For a moment, he does not answer her. Merely drinks in the sight of her: her hair falling in loose waves about her face, her face glistening with sweat and smeared with dirt. She is dressed all in black; one of her sleeves is torn, and her trouser legs are stained filthy and grey.

_Beautiful…_

He catches that thought before it flickers to her. Her face is already contorted with anger. Clearly, she is not in the most receptive of moods for any argument or entreaty he could make. From the rage and thoughts she is projecting - and _loudly -_ anything less than an unqualified surrender to the Resistance will be met with umbrage, and possibly violence too… 

“Well, now is your chance,” she tells him, her voice tight and a muscle twitching in her jaw. “Say your piece, and then go. I want nothing more to do with you.”

He rubs a hand over his face. _You wanted to take my hand; I could sense it. Why didn’t you?_

But the words will not come. Instead, a single word slips out.

“Liar.”

He regrets it almost immediately; her wrath escalates to volcanic in a heartbeat. She snarls at him, and lunges forward. He moves awkwardly as if to dodge a punch. But her fist does not connect with him.

Instead, Kylo feels himself thrown backwards by the Force; he lands awkwardly on his still-healing side. 

“Ow,” he mutters, flushing to the roots of his hair.

When he lifts his gaze, Rey is gone. She had pushed him not only to the ground, but out of the bond itself…

And _that_ hurt more than any physical blow she could ever have landed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear all,
> 
> Thank you for bearing with the 70,000 words it took for these two to hold a conversation. Suffice to say, their latest separation won’t last nearly as long if the Force has anything to do with it ;) In fact, they’re both due a little shock in about, oooh? Ten minutes time...
> 
> As always, thank you for the lovely comments and kudos :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Force finally pushes our couple to talk; but first, they have it out with everyone’s favourite Uncle/Force Ghost. Cake isn’t always the solution to relationship problems… but maybe it’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments on the last chapter! I tried not to keep you in suspense for too much longer! Alas, this is still a slow burn so our Star Crossed Idiots won’t be falling into each arms just yet… *winks*

Lying on the filthy floor of the Jedi temple, his side smarting, dust clinging to his hair and robes, Kylo at least tries to be grateful that this latest humiliation was without an audience.

Until a familiar chuckle fills the air.

He staggers to his feet and glares as Skywalker manifests before him. The bastard’s expression is almost _gleeful._ “That didn’t go how you expected, did it Ben?”

Kylo snarls, and cloaks himself in familiar anger. “Why did you bring me here?”

Skywalker shakes his head. “ _I_ didn’t bring you here. At least, not this time. I’m not Snoke, Ben. Shocking as it may seem, I’m not trying to manipulate you.”

“Of course, because you went one better and tried to murder me in my bed! Snoke at least drew the line at physical and mental torture.” _That_ seems to land a blow. Skywalker’s casual facade crumbles, and he sighs and rubs a hand over his bearded cheek. 

_Good,_ Kylo thinks. He had sworn never again to let a voice in his head control him. “So,” he says venomously, “What _are_ you trying to do? Annoy me to death?”

Skywalker huffs; when he does speak, his tone is almost scolding. “I’m trying to bring you home, kid. Just like Han did.”

At the mention of his father, Kylo’s temper explodes. “Stop saying that name!” he practically screams, hearing the boom of his voice echo in this desolate place. Not loud enough to drown the twisting guilt in his gut, but close enough. He at least manages to avoid reaching for his lightsaber this time - although once Skywalker chooses to absent himself, Kylo cannot guarantee that he won’t further desecrate this horrid, haunted place just to satiate his rage.

“You're closer to the light than you realise, Ben. No matter how hard you tried, no matter how blind I was, it never left you.”

Kylo turns away from him. The words ring hollow to a boy who almost fell under his master’s saber. Light, darkness, Sith, Jedi… The choking weight of legacy and expectation hanging over him ever since he was in his cradle. Whispered voices behind his bedroom door, whispered voices in his mind.

No one cared what Ben Solo wanted; only what role he could play in someone else’s agenda.

A strange jealousy bites at him when he thinks of Rey. To be born with a truly blank slate; no expectations, no predetermined destiny, no sinister figures murmuring their seductive promises… The freedom to choose one’s own path in life. 

A pity then that the one she had chosen was incompatible with his own.

Even though Rey had pushed him out of their bond - _again,_ he thinks with no small measure of irritation - he can still _feel_ her, almost as though her presence in the room was a tangible thing. There had been moments when he had caught what he suspected were flickers of her emotions. Rages, frustration, even snatches of happiness and peace that most certainly did not originate from himself.

But never _this_ strong. The vergence only seems to heighten their connection, even a galaxy apart. Kylo dares to hope that perhaps it will tease the bond open again soon enough…

So deep in his reverie, he has almost forgotten Skywalker’s presence. That is, until his uncle’s voice pierces the quiet. 

“Why did you come here, Ben?”

Kylo desperately wants to tell him to kriff off. But he still feels raw. Skywalker had never offered him the comfort he needed - skepticism and an undercurrent of fear had always marred their relationship. But now, rejected by Rey _again_ , the compulsion to just _talk_ is too powerful.

“I had a dream,” he says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. The lack of malice in his tone almost shocks him as he spills his thoughts. “I was an idiot and thought it actually meant something.” Then, something Skywalker had said lingers. “But you did bring me here. Before.” A nod. “Why?”

“I wanted you to see the legacy we were going to build.”

“You brought me to the place your father - my grandfather - massacred the Jedi?” He laughs, another chilling echo which pierces the air. “And you wonder why I ran to Snoke…”

Skywalker shakes his head. “You didn’t run to Snoke, kid.” His expression is almost crestfallen. “I pushed you right to him. Everything you’ve done since then is on me as much as yourself. And for that, I am truly sorry.”

Before Kylo can reflect on his uncle’s confession, Skywalker has vanished.

* * *

The last thing Rey sees of Kylo before ejecting him from their connection is the Supreme Leader toppling to the floor. A savage satisfaction fills her; it does not fully abate her frustration, but at least she doesn’t feel the urge to punch a wall.

 _Kriff_ , where did _that_ notion come from? That was a very Kylo Ren way of dealing with her rage. Is she still picking up on his emotions from the other side of the galaxy?

She huffs, and tries to return her attention to the pile of books. Endless hours she has searched, waiting for Mara Jade to return. Her eyes feel strained, every inch of her is covered in sweat and dust, she has sneezed more times in the last hours than in the entirety of her life before; her back aches, and she is still only a fraction of the way through the books. Plucking tech from dead starships like a carrion eater was easier than this.

And something else is pricking her mind. Try as she might, Rey cannot fully shake the feeling of Kylo’s presence. The bond has never felt so… powerful, so open. She feels _invaded_ by it. Will she ever know the sanctity of her own thoughts and emotions without him lurking in the back of her consciousness? Her pulse quickens at the notion.

“You’re a long way from Jakku now, Rey.”

Her eyes snap up; the lightsaber flies to her hand and is ignited before she recognises the blue-tinged figure seated before her. 

“Master Luke?”

He nods as she extinguishes the saber’s blade. “In a manner of speaking. Long time no see, kid.”

Questions splutter on her tongue. “How- But- You’re supposed to be… dead,” she finishes lamely, and feels her face redden.

Luke Skywalker merely chuckles. “A little trick the Jedi learned. Didn’t Mara warn you about Force ghosts?”

Rey bites her lip. Something Mara had said when they first met niggles at her mind. “She said something about the Jedi of old appearing and scolding her,” she says slowly. “I thought she was joking…”

“Can be hard to know with Mara,” Luke concedes, and Rey can almost sense the _longing_ in his voice. Can almost feel an echo of it in her own soul… “But on this occasion, she _was_ actually being sincere.”

The constant thrum of _Kylo_ in her mind pushes something else to the forefront of Rey’s thoughts. “So, even in death, the Jedi can… communicate with us?” Luke nods. “So, then where were they when _Ben_ needed them?” she asks, knowing that she has failed to keep the accusation from her tone. “What the _kriff_ were they doing whilst Snoke was poisoning his mind? They could have intervened at _any_ point,” and now is almost bellowing the words at Luke, “And helped him! Where was your _father_?!”

Luke seems to shrink before her; despite the ethereal halo around him, he looks forlorn. When he speaks, his eyes do not meet hers. “I wish I knew that too. It would have spared all of us - Leia especially - a lot of suffering.”

Breath leaves her in short pants. “Well, maybe you should _ask_ them.” Then, she feels the urge to _hurt_ , just for a moment. “Or maybe _you_ ought to have listened to Mara before it was too late.”

“In that regard, you’re probably right,” Luke says; that same weary, resigned tone she recognised from their time on Ahch-To. “I should have known you’d like her. Speaking of which… where is she?”

“On a ‘side mission’. Apparently.” Rey says sourly.

She has to remind herself that this is _not_ abandonment; not like her parents had done in Jakku. Mara has given her a sincere promise, and the means of escape if she did not come back. But spending a night in this dreadful, eerie, dusty place had allowed the old voices of doubt to entrench in her mind again. With an impatient sigh, she grabs the nearest tome, and begins flicking through it with enough force that the parchment almost tears. Great - _another_ useless diatribe on the merits of detachment. She hurls the book across the room with a groan, hearing it fall to the ground with a dull thud.

She senses rather than sees Luke move; when she lifts her gaze, he has perched himself on a small pile of books far too narrow to take his bulk were he still corporeal. Laws of physics, it seems, don’t apply to Force ghosts.

“What did that book ever do to you?” he asks in an attempt at levity which makes Rey cringe. “All right, bad joke. But taking your anger out on inanimate objects is better than hurting others.”

“Just be glad I didn’t throw it at _you_ ,” Rey snaps, which only earns her a wry smile from her deceased companion. 

“Who are you really mad at, Rey? Me, Ben, or Mara Jade?”

She fires a withering look at him.

“All right,” he says, raising his hands in a mollifying gesture. “I can sense when I’m not wanted. Until next time, Rey.”

And with that, he vanishes; but not before knocking the topmost book from his perch to the floor. 

Rey takes a deep breath, and rubs at her face. The library is mercifully silent; but she feels that choking, cloying presence that is Kylo somewhere in the ether. Her left leg begins to feel numb from too long folded beneath her body. She stretches, and uses the bookshelf to clumsily stand.

Her eyes drift back to where Luke had sat, before her gaze drifts to the open pages of the book he had knocked over. She shuffles closer, and a grin bursts across her face as she sees a sketch of what can only be a kyber crystal. Scooping the book up, she thumbs a few pages, before a triumphant yelp escapes her. 

For all the bizarre coincidences the Force has subjected her to, one has _finally_ worked out in her favour.

But her elation is short-lived. She stiffens as an awareness dawns over her.

Rey stuffs the precious ledger into her satchel, and pulls the lightsaber to her. Her breaths grow shallow, and she casts out with the Force.

Someone else is here.

She tries to get a sense of them; but Kylo’s presence in the bond is blunting her senses, like a slick of oil across her vision. At best, she knows that whoever else has entered the library, it is not Mara Jade.

* * *

Kylo has thundered up the main staircases; pausing twice to question why he is still even here, why he doesn’t just leave this horrid, haunted place and return to the _Finalizer_ until their meeting with the Sienar-Jaemus board members tonight.

But he still feels a pull to the main library. _What answers can it possibly offer_ , he wonders, _except to confirm that I’m just as unhinged as everyone else thinks I am_?

A spike of emotions flicker across him as he steps through the broken doorway into the main library. A strange exhilaration that he recognises not as his own. Rey is _happy,_ he realises, and feels the emotion choke him. He would think that she was relishing in his humiliation; but that is not Rey. She may draw on the darkness in her soul, but she has never another’s pain as a salve to her own. Unlike him.

Pale sunlight fills the room through the large, grimy window at the far end of the room. The air is no less thick with dust here; and the destruction no less wanton. It felt sanctimonious to see it in such a condition. Kylo cringes at the piles of cracked and smashed holobooks, pages of parchment strewn across the floor, torn and smeared with blood and footprints. 

An almost mournful feeling overtakes him. Though any love for the Jedi he once held was long buried, Kylo had always appreciated libraries. They were places of quiet, of a solitude that had felt inviting rather than lonely. 

Then, a pulsing awareness strikes him. The prickle of another presence.

Who _else_ would be foolish enough to come here? 

Skywalker had told him tales of this place as a young boy. The Coruscanti believed it to be haunted by the ghosts of slaughtered Jedi. But that was nonsense. Pain and dark deeds lingered. Even those totally insensate to the Force might pick up on it, especially in this place. But this was no spectral abode (apart from the occasional irritant uncle, Kylo mentally corrects himself). This was merely the last monolith of a dead religion. A monument to the hubris of the Jedi.

So, if not a ghost, then this presence could only be a _person_. 

Slowly, stealthily, he unclips the saber from his belt. He follows the presence, probes at it. But his head is so full of _Rey_ that he can discern little else.

His boots make no sound as he approaches a toppled bookshelf, pads through a maze of parchment and tomes littering the ground.

Then, he hears a sneeze.

The saber is ignited, and he senses panic in his opponent, before ease descends.

He hears the thrum of another kyber crystal, sees a flash of another saber - this one a brilliant purple. 

Kylo lunges forward, teeth bared, and steps out of the shadow.

He feels the clash of her saber against his a split second before he recognises her.

“Rey?”

She stares at him with wide eyes and parted lips. Her entire body seems to thrum with barely contained rage. Even as he lowers his lightsaber, darkens the blade, she still holds hers aloft. The Force crackles around her, like a shift in the air before the onset of a storm. 

“How did you find me?” She barks. 

Kylo raises his hands. His pulse quickens in a way that has nothing to do with fear. “Rey, this is as much a surprise to me as it is to you.”

When he found her in the forests of Takodana, she was fascinating. 

When she left him bleeding in the snow on Starkiller Base, she was majestic.

When she sat across from him in the firelight, drenched to the skin, so raw and _vulnerable_ , and reached across the galaxy to touch him, she was beautiful. 

When she caught the lightsaber that halved Snoke, and grazed at him with wonder in her eyes, she was perfect.

Now, here, in the flesh, covered in dust and snarling at him, her eyes feral and her weapon raised in anger at him, she is positively ethereal. 

Delight bubbles within him; it brushes against her unadulterated fury. For a moment, the two can only stare in silence, blinking, as they sort through the tangle of their warring emotions. An interrogation passes between them without words. _Why are you here? What does this mean? Is this even_ **_real_ ** _?_

Kylo has imagined this meeting a hundred times: in dull war councils as Pryde drones on endlessly about their latest conquest; in chaste fantasies in the deep of night; in the steam of the ‘fresher when there are no other distractions. 

He realises that she is yet to lower her weapon, still crouched in a stance as though she is preparing for a fight. That stings worse than the bite of a gnaw-jaw. He sighs, and raises an eyebrow at her. “Your stance is too wide.”

“Kriff off.”

He snorts. “Clearly your time with the Resistance has coarsened your tongue.”

In response, Rey growls a curse at him in Shyriiwook so explicit, he almost blushes.

“Spending time with a feral beast as well as thieves and murderers,” he says, ignoring the pang of nostalgia in his heart. He tries to effect an easy smirk, though he suspects it appears more as a grimace. “Although I would quite like to take you up on your suggestion, I'm afraid that I don't have that particular part of anatomy required.”

“Better a feral beast than a murderous snake,” she counters.

He misses the insult as a sudden thought grips at him, so tight he is almost choked with it. Speaking of the Resistance... they would not be so bold to establish a base here in the Core. Nor would the Coruscanti political elite, toothless though there were, be welcoming of them. He stills, and closes his eyes to feel for another presence, pushing down the hurt.

“Leia isn't here,” she says. He blinks at her. “You’re projecting. Loudly.”

Kylo cringes and runs a gloved hand over his face. Leia… Not General Organa; not Senator or Princess, but _Leia._ A name that trips off her tongue with familiarity and fondness. He feels a painful clenching around his heart. Not to mention her casual use of Shyriiwook… Maker, is he _jealous?_

He shields those thoughts; buries the emotion somewhere deep. That particular hurt he can examine later, but in this moment, all Kylo needs, as desperately as air, is to _talk._ “Rey, please _put down_ that lightsaber and just talk to me. Why are you here?”

“I’m a _scavenger_ ,” she says, but makes no move to lower the purple blade. “Or have you forgotten? Wrecks and ruins attract us like flies to a corpse.”

His eyes fall again on the hilt of the lightsaber in her hand; a different coloured blade with a very different hilt to the weapon they had torn apart in their battle of wills last time they shared the same air… 

The words slip free, and there is no masking his bitterness. “Then I see you’ve _scavenged_ yourself another lightsaber. Was destroying my legacy not enough for you?”

He feels the brush of her anger again, mixing with his own mounting frustration. Their bond now flares like an inferno, the air fizzing with their mingled wrath; it will not take much provocation for either of them to snap.

“It’s not scavenging if it calls to you,” she shoots back; her grip around the saber hilt is so tight, her knuckles are almost bone white. “And the only person trampling on your so-called _legacy_ is _you_ , Ben Solo.”

The ground beneath them seems to shift; the floor and the bookshelves around vibrate, their contents crashing to the floor. Dust swirls arounds them, a nascent storm in progress. The air crackles around them, raw with the Force and their turbulent emotions.

An urge to reignite his blade, to clash sabers with her, grips Kylo. He feels his fury entwine with her own, and there is something almost _intimate_ about the whole thing.

That notion somehow pierces the cloud of his thoughts. 

“I’m not going to fight you, Rey,” he says, letting the anger drain away. “All I want to do is talk to you. All you have to do is listen.” He clips the saber to his belt once more, and holds out a single gloved hand in a painfully familiar gesture. “Please?”

The fight goes out of her; her shoulders sag and the wrath fades to a weariness he feels the echo of in his own marrow. Finally, the purple blade of her new lightsaber darkens. Her eyes are hard as flint. 

“I have nothing I want to hear from you, _Supreme Leader.”_

In a heartbeat, she spins on her heels and begins to march away from him.

The Force recedes; the air stills.

It would be easy to follow; to grab her hand and yank her back, to _force_ her to listen. But Kylo will not sink to chasing her like a child. 

Nor, however, is he going to walk away. How can he return to his shuttle, or to the _Finalizer,_ knowing she is so tantalisingly close? 

A stream of curses mutter in his mind in Rey’s voice, along with a wave of relief. He frowns for a moment, before realising that he is still able to discern her thoughts. The pull between them is not weakening with the distance - it remains as robust as when they stood before each other with lightsabers drawn. Is the bond changing, or is this merely their proximity, especially in the presence of a vergence?

His head begins to throb; his entire body is in a state of disequilibrium. As he massages his temple, two thoughts occur to Kylo.

One: his coming here, and hers, was no accident. The guiding hand of the Force was responsible, and that means it _wants_ something.

Two: If Kylo is ever to understand this peculiar bond between them, there could be worse places to start than in a library.

* * *

Of all the systems, planets, moons in the entire galaxy, why did Kylo kriffing Ren have to end up on _this_ one at the same time as her? In the same kriffing building no less! Were it not for the unadulterated shock that had flickered across their bond - that damn bond! - Rey would think that he had somehow planned this.

She tugs at her hair. Why is he here, if not to hunt for her? What possible purpose could the Supreme Leader, the _Jedi Killer_ , have to come here?

By the time she has crossed to the far end of the library, Rey presses her brow to the wall and exhales a shuddering breath. The stone is cool beneath her skin, but she still feels aflame with fury.

Then, a chilling thought grips her, and she thanks the Force, the Maker and the gods of any pantheon listening in that Mara Jade wasn’t here when Kylo had appeared. Kriff, how could Rey ever have explained _that_ to her mentor?

Luke had known of her Force bond with his nephew; he had looked upon Rey as though she was _tainted_. By the darkness, by her connection to Ben. 

_You opened yourself to the Dark side for a pair of pretty eyes._

A grunt of frustration escapes her; and she regrets not hurling a book straight into his spectral face earlier.

 _But Mara is different,_ she reminds herself. Mara has stood in the shadow, and found her way to the Light. She has never preached anything but a balanced approach to the Force. Light, Dark… _That’s how I use the Force - in the grey…_

But further musings on the dichotomy of good, evil and the Force were drowned out by the rumble of her stomach.

Hunger had been Rey’s constant companion on Jakku. Every day, every backbreaking, bone weary expedition to the ship’s graveyard had been an act of survival. The more tech, the higher the quality of it, she could scavenge, then that little further away from starvation she was. More tech meant more portions. She had rarely accrued enough to have reserves in the event of a bad haul. So she learned to numb that gnawing emptiness in her belly.

She remembers then that her satchel, with her rations - and, kriff, the _ledger_ \- had been abandoned once her unwelcome visitor had appeared. And was currently situated at the other end of the library…

An end presently occupied by the Supreme Leader. She groans.

Last night’s meal at the restaurant… Rey had never imagined such plentitude to exist; she had gone days at a stretch subsiding on less food than Mara had pushed upon her. How astounding that, in a few short weeks, her body had become accustomed to regular meals; and had even grown to _expect_ them. At that thought, her stomach gives another, more impatient, growl.

 _Well_ , she decides mulishly, _At the distractions here are better than on Jakku._ Even if she to constantly scrunch her nose to stifle yet another sneeze.

She reaches out with the Force, and a random book flies straight into her grasp. The print is so minute, she has to squint to read it. But the effort alone provided a temporary reprieve from her hunger, and it gives Rey an avenue to ignore the sheer intensity of Kylo’s presence.

For now, at least.

* * *

Though he never met anyone who actually knew the woman, Kylo thinks that Jocasta Nu would be in a rage to the point of delirium if she could see the condition of her beloved Archives. Clearly a massacre followed by decades of Sith and subsequently New Republic rule had not benefited either the condition of the Library, nor its cataloguing system. And that was without even considering the destruction of the digital archives… 

He has at least a rudimentary idea of where on the shelves the type of text he is seeking _should_ be. But apparently wanton desecration does not occur in any sort of systemic manner.

Where they ought to be texts on the nature of the Force, he finds history books. The historical shelves across the hall - well, the floor of the historical section, he corrects himself - is actually littered with torn star maps of systems he barely recognises. And the mess in the map section doesn’t bear thinking about…

Of course, Kylo might find it easier to concentrate if he weren’t so damn _ravenous._

At first, the gnawing in his belly confuses him. He had broken his fast only a few hours earlier on the _Finalizer._ True, he had only eaten a thin broth with some bread, but that would normally sustain him at least until lunchtime, which was still several hours away according to the chrono. Then, he realises that the hunger he feels is not his own - it is an echo of Rey’s.

 _How can she ignore that?_ He groues, before another thought hits him. Rey might not have any food on her person. She had eked out a meagre existence for herself on that hellish desert junkyard, had gone to bed hungry a thousand times… As angry as she is with him - and kriff, if she could just let him _talk_ without reaching for her weapon first! - Rey is not a fool. She will not sulk herself into starvation.

It is then that he remembers the box of spiced cakes in his satchel. To give the Force its due, it certainly wasn’t in the mood for _subtly_.

 _“If you ever upset a woman,”_ Han Solo’s voice suddenly purrs in his mind, _“Confectionery usually works as an apology.”_

Kylo smoothers that thought - his heart feels heavy enough without broaching the dangerous subject of his father. 

Nor does _he_ feel that she is owed an apology - she is not the one who ended up knocked to the floor with the Force. But he senses that, if either of them are to broach an attempt at reconciliation, it will have to be him.

He runs a hand through his hair; he waits a few minutes to see if the aching hunger will abate, if Rey will make any move to act on it, before he groans.

* * *

_This isn’t starvation_ , Rey reminds herself, chewing on her lip. Yet, why is she so _bothered_ by it? She has gone _days_ without more than a quarter portion with less grumbling…

Then, she senses a spike of irritation, and realises she is _still_ picking up on Kylo’s emotions. The annoyance does not originate from herself - _he_ is the one struggling to cope with hunger. She is not attuned enough to his feelings (nor does she ever wish to be) to know if his hunger is compounding her own, or if he is simply being precious.

Of course, Ben Solo, with his fancy calligraphy set and loving parents, had probably never gone to bed hungry; his every whim would have been indulged, his every need met. Rey had promised herself, that night after the Battle of Crait, that she would have no more sympathy for him.

And she certainly would _not_ be sharing her rations with him.

The sound of stomping footsteps fills the air. “Rey?” his voice calls out.

She could answer him; but it is so much more satisfying to seethe in silence. For now, at least. With him so close, another confrontation is inevitable. But she will not do anything to invite it.

“Rey?” he says again, like he is trying to cajole her. His voice grows closer with every step. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Stay out of my head,” she snaps. The care and gentleness in his tone unnerves her. It is easier if he doesn’t _care_ for her; if he is still her enemy. She can handle the Supreme Leader.

But she is not confident that she can remain objective around Ben Solo.

As soon as the thought leaves her, he appears around the corner. Rey remains seated on the floor, and juts out her chin. She looks up at him: his features narrow and stark, his skin almost translucent in the pale light. There are dark circles under his eyes, and if he were anyone other than the Supreme Leader of the _kriffing_ First Order, she might actually feel pity for him.

“I have food,” he tells her; and feels the brush of his pity against her. That rankles, and she tries to project her annoyance back at him. 

Rey hopes that this free-flowing emotion, this _openness_ of their bond is merely a consequence of the potency of the Force here. If their connection is evolving, if this is what she will have to deal with between them from now on…

An involuntary shudder reverberates up her spine.

“I have my own food,” she snaps back. 

Kylo frowns, and rubs a gloved hand over his face. “Then why aren’t you eating it? I can feel your hunger, Rey.”

“Fine, I’ll eat my rations and then you can leave me!”

A muscle twitches in Kylo’s jaw. His annoyance is a palpable thing across the bond. “Rations?” he scoffs, and raises an eyebrow. “Look, I have some proper food - let me share it with you.” He holds out his hand to her once more. 

Rey’s retort dies on her lips when her stomach rumbles loudly in approval at Kylo’s suggestion. The corners of his lips quirk upwards, and she gives a sigh. He takes her tiny nod as acquiescence.

He follows her at a respectable distance, but the sheer intensity of his delight is overwhelming. It almost makes her want to turn back, drop another of Chewie’s colourful expletives… but her shoulders sag with exhaustion. She is tired down to her very marrow. The whole situation is just so utterly surreal that she half-wonders if this is just a hallucination.

When they reach the spot Rey had found the ledger in, Kylo does not cross the threshold. He merely watches as she collects her satchel, and then beckons her to follow. Along the way, he grabs a bag of his own - _Black, of course,_ she thinks with a roll of her eyes - before continuing to lead her down the main concourse.

“Where are we going?” She asks warily, not wanting to disturb this tentative peace that has settled over them.

“There’s probably a dining hall or similar somewhere in this ruin,” he says.

Rey stops in her tracks. “Why do we need to find a dining hall? Can’t we just eat here?”

Kylo turns to stare at her; his jaw slackens and he looks positively scandalised. If she did not think it would shatter this strange truce between them, Rey would laugh. It takes her a moment to realise that she has never seen his face so emotive except in the heat of his rages. 

“Rey, you can’t be serious? You don’t _eat_ in a _library!”_

“Why not?”

She watches him run a hand through his hair. “You just… don’t,” he says, and cringes because he must know his feeble that sounds.

“There must be a reason,” Rey says. She has the distinct impression this is one of those _etiquette_ things she has come to learn are important in the Core Worlds. Not eating in the ‘fresher she understands - but really, what is wrong with eating in this place? Surely the greater misdeed is her merely being willing to eat with him.

Kylo’s brows knit together; she tries to sense his logic, watch as she tries to form his thoughts into words he can articulate, before he simply shrugs. “Fine - we can eat here. But if the librarian’s Force ghost appears to accost us for having a picnic in the archives...”

They drop to the ground together, and sit crossed legged facing one another. The last Jedi and the Supreme Leader, the man who earned the sobriquet of ‘Jedi Killer’, about to share a meal in the wreck and ruin of the Jedi Temple… The whole situation is farcical.

She digs around her satchel (careful to conceal the ledger within - whilst she may be willing to break bread with Kylo, she does not trust him in any regard, and especially not with _this_ ) and pulls out two ration bars as well as a canteen of water. 

His own offering is a small box with four sticky round items that remind Rey of the polystarch portions she lived off on Jakku. 

“They’re spiced cakes,” he says gently. She watches as he tugs off his glove, and tries to push down memories of the last time she has seen his bare hands. Such huge, _warm_ hands… 

Rey smoothers that thought before it can even begin. Instead, she watches as he picks up one of the cakes, and holds it out to her. The act of taking food from him is not momentous - but her fingers still quiver as she accepts it from his grasp.

Suddenly, an image flirts into Rey’s mind - herself seated upon Snoke’s throne, draped in a flowing black gown. Kylo is at her feet, kneeling in supplication, before he reaches for her hand. His gloves are gone. She can almost feel the tangible warmth of his skin as he clasps her hand and brings it to his lips.

It’s by far the chastest fantasy she has ever had of him, yet it embarasses her more than the dreams of them in the _Falcon’s_ bunk, without a stitch of clothing between them, sighing and moaning against each other.

When she looks up at Kylo, he has flushed scarlet to the tips of his ears. “Sorry,” he mutters, tearing his gaze from her and becoming oddly focussed on a cracked tile, shuffling his boot across its surface. “You weren’t meant to see that.”

A prickle of dread creeps up her neck - so that scene hadn’t originated from her own imagination, but had bled into her mind from his. _Kriff._ She forces herself to imagine a barrier between their minds, a shield lest some of her own fantasies inadvertently be shared with the Supreme Leader.

(She will need to ask Mara Jade how to properly shield her mind, though how to explain that _particular_ need she has no idea.)

Instead, Rey uses her free hand to push a ration bar across the floor to him. 

He stares at her offering. “Rey, you don’t have to-”

“No,” she says firmly, and shakes her head. “A fair trade.”

Kylo huffs, but picks up the bar nonetheless before stuffing it into his satchel. His skin is still hot with his blush, and she can still feel the brush of his discomfort through the bond. 

“Besides, if you hadn’t taken that ration bar off me,” she says, “I’d have to assume you were trying to bribe me with cake.”

His lips turn upwards at the corners slightly; not the arrogant smirk she remembers from that horrid interrogation room on Starkiller Base, but what might almost pass for an attempt at _smiling_. “Rey, I offered you the galaxy, and my hand; you refused. I hardly think confectionery is going to sway you.”

Rey coughs – then realises the sound that escaped her was in fact a weak laugh.

Kylo seems to think he has crossed some unspoken line between them; he quickly takes a bite of cake. She realises that she has yet to indulge in her own and hurriedly mimics the motion.

The first bite is a revelation - the nectar glaze is sticky and oh so sickly sweet, but the cake itself is rich and aromatic. She has never tasted anything so delicious - not even the delicacies Mara had selected for her last night - and she almost moans from delight.

His eyes seem to burn into her, and he shifts awkwardly on the ground, his impossibly long limbs curled beneath him. He eats with small, almost dainty bites; whereas she polishes off the confection in three bites. Her eyes fall greedily on the remaining cakes. She scoops up another one and devours it with the same vigour.

The nectar lingers on her lips, sticky and delicious. Rey runs her tongue across them to capture the final morsels.

 _That_ gesture draws a strangled groan from him; she can feel him erecting a mental shield around his thoughts, lest they slip free to her.

Rey reaches for her canteen, and takes a long gulp of water. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, before holding the canteen out to Kylo. “You didn’t bring any water?” she says.

He shakes his head; a few dark locks fall into his eyes. Her fingers itch to brush them back, but she steadies her hand. “No. Of all the things I expected to do today, having an importu picnic in the Jedi Archives with you didn’t make the list.”

“Clearly,” she says as he takes the canteen. This time, both of them are careful to avoid even the merest caress. He tips the canteen to his lips, which still glisten with the cake’s sticky coating. A stray droplet escapes, and meanders a slow path down his chin. It follows the line of his scar - the one _she_ had branded him with, down his broad neck, before disappearing beneath the collar of his tunic. Rey hitches a breath; either he doesn’t notice, or is polite enough to ignore the sudden heat in the air between them.

“What’s a picnic?” Rey asks, hoping for continued distraction.

An unexpected rush of compassion hits her; she feels a coil of anger twist deep within her. “Don’t you dare pity me, Ben Solo,” she snaps.

But his eyes - those wide, expressive eyes - fill with sorrow as he continues to stare at her. “I won’t,” he says, shaking his head before sliding the canteen across the floor to her. A sigh escapes him. “A picnic is when people eat outside - usually somewhere beautiful like a meadow or a beach - but I suppose it’s any meal you eat not at a table.”

“I see.”

Silence hangs between them, loud as a thunderstorm. Now that their meal is over, and both of their hungers sated, they cannot ignore the gulf between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/AndrinaNightsh1) too! Come and say hello!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All wounds take time to heal... But perhaps a burgeoning friendship can help?

For all that Kylo almost begged her to let him talk, he seems to be dumbstruck now that the opportunity has presented itself. 

The war between them has been exhausting; this silence even more so. Though Rey has tried so vehemently to deny it, even to herself - with drug-induced sleep, with endless hours of training - she knows deep in her marrow that she has _missed_ him.

That thought stills the breath in her lungs.

She misses the man whose company she sought when she was soaked to the skin, so vulnerable and afraid. The man who defied the rules of war, the very limits of the Force to comfort her. His enemy, and he had been there for her in her moment of need.

_You’re not alone._

_Neither are you._

Now, Kylo sits across from her. Stares at her. His lips tremble, and he swallows air. Her own gut twist with an echo of his nervousness. Only a few feet separate them, but the gulf between them is as wide as the galaxy itself.

Rey has watched him commit unnatural acts of violence. She has watched him in the heat of a rage; in the calamity of battle; in the depth of misery and the height of despair. She knows the loneliness in his heart, as sharp and acute as her own. 

But even though Kylo is silent, the Force is not. It hisses with purpose; one she cannot discern but feels fluttering deep within her. And that terrifies her.

More than kneeling before him fearing he would kill on her Snoke’s orders. More than fighting him on an imploding planet. More than being hunted by him in the forest. More than seeing her friends shot out of the sky and knowing she was powerless to stop it. 

And _still_ Kylo sits in silence.

Finally, Rey is the one to break their awkward reverie. “Who wants to talk to me?”

“Me,” he says, a frown creasing his face. 

“And _who_ are you? Because I can’t talk to Kylo Ren. But I _might_ be willing to listen to Ben Solo.”

Kylo, Ben or whatever name he chooses to bear, rubs a hand over his face. He has yet to replace his glove. Though she has seen him half-bare before (and she flushes to the roots of her hair at the memory, hoping he cannot sense the growing heat in the air), this moment is different. She has never seen him so exposed and raw.

When he speaks, his voice is low enough that Rey has to strain to hear. “Call me what you want. Ben, if that’s easier. But maybe one day you will understand something.” His eyes glimmer. “Calling me one name over the other doesn’t change who I am.” _Or what I’ve done._

“Ben.” Rey tests the word, and watches as his mouth tries (and fails) to contort into a smile. His lips remain closed but the corners of his quirk slightly upwards.

Rey is too familiar with the sting of cruelty and indifference. And this man before her, no matter the battalions and weaponry at his command, the savage mastery of the Force, the title he carries, he is only a man. A broken, lonely man. 

Too many solitary nights in _Hellhound Two_ claw at her memory. She had felt his despair, his desolation, the desperate need for understanding, for a connection to fill the gaping chasm within him. The Dark had whispered promises into his mind, seduced him. But perhaps… It would never truly own Ben Solo.

Rey feels… raw. Or perhaps their emotions are melding, entwining… She had sworn never to be vulnerable before him again. Never to open herself up and let him hurt her again.

Any mental shielding she attempts is tenuous at best. Her emotions feel razor thin. She tries to take a steadying breath, to grasp at a moment of peace, to focus on anything other than Kylo.

Anything other than _Ben_.

Instead, she remembers lying in the grass with Rose, under the sweltering, sticky heat of Ajan Kloss; she remembers their shared laughter; remembers listening to the birds swooping overhead. The tranquility and simplicity of it all. She had felt _free_. 

But that freedom from their bond, from _him,_ had only ever been an illusion. Just another dream for Rey to cling to and deceive herself.

“Who is she?” Kylo’s voice penetrates her thoughts, his presence so intense she feels suffocated with it. “Your… friend?”

Rey bites her lip. “If you truly want to talk,” she says, her tone as clinical as she can muster when her heart thunders beneath her breast, “Then I think this will be easier if we set some rules.” Surprise flickers on his face, echoing in her mind as well as his own, but he nods his ascent. 

Rey sucks in a deep breath. “First of all, I am not going to tell you anything about the Resistance - our base, our plans, _anything._ So don’t even ask.”

 _You know I can take whatever I want,_ purrs in her mind.

Even if she could not feel his emotions as though they were her own (and kriff, what a hideous feeling!), his face now hides nothing from her. His eyebrows rise almost to his hairline. Aside from checking he wasn’t on the same planet as Leia - his _mother_ \- Kylo had not even thought to use her for information.

Rey does not know whether to feel relieved or worried by that knowledge.

Luckily, she is spared from further contemplation when Kylo nods. He gestures for her to continue.

“Secondly,” she says, grasping for a calm she does not feel, “When I have heard what you have to say, you _will_ allow me to leave. You will not follow me, or have me followed.”

It’s a hollow command, and she knows it. He has an entire military at his disposal. He could surround the building; quarantine the spaceport, have every ship searched until he found her. But again he nods. 

Kylo Ren has been violent; he has been angry. But he has never been deceitful to her; and she senses no guile in him now.

“And finally,” Rey says, and watches him lean forward in interest. “I want you to accept that under no circumstances will I leave here with you. Willingly or in binders. I will never join the First Order. Not as your acolyte, your pupil, or-” she tails off, unsure how else to describe the strange _longing_ he has looked upon her with.

He squirms, and gives a final nod. 

_That_ had been the point she expected some challenge on him. A plea, an entreaty; anything to reflect the hunger thrumming between them. Rey quirks her eyebrows at him.

She does not have to speak - this frightfully open bond sends the query straight to him.

“It’s not that I don’t want y-... That,” he says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “But the First Order is not a safe place for you. Not now.”

Rey frowns, tries to grasp at the direction of his thoughts. “Snoke is gone. What…?” The question dries up before she understands what she is asking.

“What did I tell the Order?” a mirthless laugh escapes him, and he gazes at her through slanted eyes. “I told them that you killed him. And the Praetorian guards as well. Hux wants to put quite the bounty on your head – three million credits, dead or alive.”

Even to the scavenger girl who bartered broken tech for portions, she knows that three million credits is an outrageous sum. Enough to feed the entire Jakku system for a year, she guesses. Enough to fund a new fleet for the Resistance.

“Seems I am worth more than ‘nothing’ after all,” she murmurs. 

Kylo visibly flinches, and she watches his teeth come out to worry at his lower lip. Again, he breathes heavily. She waits for his justification, his annoyance, his anger.

Yet, the words he speaks are so quiet, she has to strain to hear them, “I’m sorry.”

Of all the entreaties, arguments, pitiful attempts at persuasion, at absolution he could have spoken… An apology was not what Rey expected.

“Oh.” 

The fight leaves her. Even though she has envisaged this moment an infinite number of times, it still paralyses her. The walls she has tried to build around her mind, her feelings, crumble. And then the bond snaps even more open.

Blood pounds in her ears; the sound of her heartbeat quickening. But then she realises - it isn’t only her own heartbeat she can hear. 

It’s his.

A maelstrom of emotion passes between them. Two lifetimes of aching loneliness. Grief for a moment and connection shattered in a haze of laser fire and burning duraplast. A different ending to that instant they had touched across a galaxy - brows pressed together, limbs entangled, absolute _trust_ in every word and action. That precious link between two souls.

When the storm recedes, both of their faces are wet with tears.

Rey wipes them away angrily with her sleeve. Her nose is dripping, and she lets out a loud sniffle. Through glistening eyelashes, she casts a glance in his direction.

His chest heaves with each panting breath; his eyes are focussed on that cracked tile beneath his boot.

She scoots closer; close enough to reach out and rub her thumb over his exposed knuckles. Close enough to bury his head in her neck and feel the soft caress of his breath, and the dampness of his tears. Close enough to enfold him in her arms, and accept the comfort and touch she had craved in those desperate dreams.

It would be so tantalisingly easy… to bury all her anger, her disappointment, and simply _feel_ him. But Ben is right. 

They need to talk. Without lightsabers, without threat of violence. 

Silence settles over them once more, interspersed only with their shuddering breaths and the cadence of their shared heartbeat.

“I was surprised to see you,” Rey says after a few minutes, ignoring the thickness of her voice. “Not just here, I mean,” she clarifies, gesturing to their mutual surroundings. “But I genuinely believed that the bond had closed. That last time seemed so… final. But I think I just wanted it to be. Because it was easier.”

“Easier?” Ben says, his voice as hoarse as hers. 

“Than admitting that I missed my friend. The one who comforted me when I was confused and afraid.” Her skin tingles with the memory of his touch. She tries to purge the emotion from her voice. “But when I saw _you_ , I didn’t see _him_.” She stares at Ben with dead eyes. “I saw Kylo Ren - violent and angry. Not my friend.”

Ben rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s easy for you to make that distinction, isn’t it? Call me by a different name, let yourself see me as a monster, and then push me away?” That familiar glaze of tears fills his eyes, and she feels the sting as acutely as if it were her own. 

Because she knows he is right. Deep in her heart, those desires she keeps buried until they burst free in her dreams, she _wants_ Ben Solo. Uncomplicated, unscarred, unencumbered by the weight of Kylo Ren’s crimes. Yet, _this_ man before her is both; this chaotic, angry, broken figure. Ben Solo, Kylo Ren… Two halves of a whole. The same hands had plunged that lightsaber into Han’s chest, and now dripped red with his blood; the same voice had ordered that massacre on Jakku; the same heart now ached with the guilt and sin of patricide.

Hurt has finally loosened his tongue. “Tell me honestly, Rey... what did you think would happen when you packaged yourself to the _Supremacy_? That I would run off and join the Resistance?”

“Yes,” Rey snaps. 

He scoffs. “Such hubris. One day soon, you will realise that the Force isn’t some benevolent entity. It showed us what we needed to see to give it what it wanted.”

“But you _did_ turn from Snoke,” she says; though her earlier rage has cooled, she still feels it licking at her consciousness. Her nose scrunches. “I watched you slice him in half!”

“And naively mistook it for some grand act of rebirth. When my motives were much less pure.” That hunger in his eyes is back, and the Force crackles and pulses around them.

“Then why did-”

“I did it for _you_.”

Any retort dies on her lips. 

He takes advantage of her silence to shuffle closer, until they are only inches apart. “Watching Snoke torture you… it was the worst pain I could have ever imagined. Worse than anything he had ever put me through. He _hurt_ you, Rey.” The brewing storm of familiar rage swirls around him once more.

“ _You_ hurt me too, Ben,” Rey says, voice like flint. “He only hurt me physically. But you… You tore into my mind. You took something I had buried deep inside me, to protect myself and keep myself sane, and you used it to _hurt_ me. All because I wouldn’t forsake my friends for you.” Her voice grows louder, and she doesn’t care if all of Coruscant can hear her. “ You called me _nothing.”_

“Rey, you have no _idea_ what I’d give to be nothing.” 

Rey grimaces, and springs to her feet. “I’ve seen what you would do for power, Kylo Ren. Forgive me for not believing that you would ever want anonymity.” 

And before he can respond, she walks away.

Once again, he does not follow. But even distance will not dissolve the intertwining of their two souls.

Much as she would want it to.

* * *

It’s like Crait on repeat.

Kylo finds himself kneeling in the dust of a crumbling ruin, his spirit on the precipice of breaking, and watching Rey walk away again. His heart _aches,_ and he has never felt more powerless. Nor more alone.

Not when he awoke to the glare of his uncle’s saber raised in anger.

Not when he hid behind a door and listened to his parents whispers of _“What to do about Ben?”_

Not when Snoke belittled him, abused him, struck him with lightning and taunted him with every secret and shameful weakness in his heart.

This is the fourth time she has walked away from him. Left him bleeding, half-dead in the icy forest on Starkiller. Abandoned his unconscious form in the conflagration of Snoke’s throne room. And even earlier today, she had darkened her saber and fled rather than share the same air as him.

No, he shakes his head. But she had also come back to him; admittedly lured with the promise of food. Whilst part of him is ashamed at having to resort to so primitive a tactic (especially as he doesn’t want to exploit her fears and her trauma), it _had_ worked. 

Why can’t it be easy?

With Rey, he feels _seen._ Exposed, but in a way that feels dangerously _right_. Like she can peel away every mask, chip away at the anger and coldness he tries to armour himself in. Perhaps she feels the same about him, and that scares her.

He remembers that vision, that memory of hers that had slipped through every barricade she tried erect between their minds. Of laying in the grass with that dark-haired woman. Of Rey’s smile and how _light_ and carefree she had seemed.

He doesn’t know who the other woman is - no doubt another of his mother’s ignorant pawns, prepared to die for a foolish cause - but he is painfully _jealous_ of her. That she gets to see Rey at her best moments, and know her.

Because matter how deeply entwined their souls are, how much he understands her on the most instinctual level… Kylo barely knows her.

Oh, he knows her darkest secrets - even the one she would never admit to herself until he had forced her to acknowledge it. He knows the sound of her snores, her deepest fears, and even her bone-aching loneliness.

But there are the other things he wishes to learn. Her favourite food, the dulcet sound of her laughter...

But at least he knows that she likes cake.

* * *

Once she is out of his sight, huddled back in the restricted section of the Archives, Rey slumps against a toppled bookcase.

The pounding in her chest has settled. Only one heartbeat echoes there now, even if his tempestuous emotions still pulse within her mind. Her hand falls to her side, and brushes over the casing of Mara’s borrowed lightsaber.

Oh, _kriff… Mara_.

Her eyes dart frantically around, her gut twisting and contorting. Any moment now, Mara could come back. And see Kylo here in the Archives with her. Be _seen_ by Kylo. Rey can even begin to imagine how she is going to explain his presence to her mentor…

But Mara had cared for Ben, once. When he had spoken of him, her words were tinged with fondness, a gentle recollection of an innocent child whose mind was poisoned by the Dark Side, not the broken, savage soul he had become. Mara would not judge… She would understand.

Then, another fear grips Rey, strangling her heart like a vice.

What will happen if Mara does not come back?

The credit chip burns in her pocket. She recites the plan Mara had given her in her mind, hoping that her mental shielding and Kylo’s current turmoil is enough to hide it from him. 

Go to the spaceport. 

Get on the first transport to Bespin.

Find Lando Calrissian.

Say goodbye to the first true mentor she has ever had.

That last thought causes her to sicken. Luke had never fulfilled that role. Han had never even gotten the chance. Rey has endured too many goodbyes recently… As much as she wants to believe Mara will come back, she has already been gone for more than half a day. The whispered words of her parents’ broken promise still scratch at her mind. The scar of their abandonment still festers and oozes.

Rey leans forward, and buries her head against her knees. Each breath is a short pant, as she tries to quell the storm within her.

Why she casts her mind out toward Kylo - damnit, _Ben_ \- she does not know. Perhaps it is the strange quiet on his end of the bond. Perhaps she merely hopes that she is not alone in her suffering…

Strangely, his turmoil seems to have abated. Or maybe he is just shielding his troubles from her. Envy snaps at her heels.

Every time she walks away, they always seem to be pulled back together (usually through the machinations of the Force, she grouses). And every reunion is on his terms, never hers. That lightsaber duel on Starkiller. Being led to Snoke in binders on the _Supremacy_ . And now his unexpected appearance _here_ , in person… 

So, Rey muses, she can sit here and wait until he speaks to her (and he will come, be it in a minute or an hour)… Or, for once, _she_ can seek him out first.

That decision feels momentous in a way she cannot articulate, but stills the breath in her lungs. She tells herself this is only a way of clawing back some power in this strange relationship that has developed between them. 

Even if she doesn’t entirely believe that.

Rey brushes as much dust as she can from her clothing. The black fabric is almost saturated with grey. She runs fingers through her loosened hair, catching on a few knots which she tries to work out before giving up with a grumble. 

And then she goes to him.

Ben hasn’t moved from the spot where she left him. That small box with the final cake sits a few feet away from him, and he seems oddly fascinated by it. Even though his emotions are finally and blissfully barricaded from Rey, his face betrays him. Eyes filled with pain, sorrow, regret, loneliness. The Supreme Leader is… brooding?

His head snaps up as she approaches. His jaw hangs slack and his eyes follow her every move as she approaches. Rey drops to her knees a few feet away from him, feeling his mental shields begin to crumble. His body is suddenly rigid.

She clears her throat. “You tried to blow the _Falcon_ out of the sky with me on it,” she says, surprised at how little accusation there is behind the words. “Do you still want to kill me?”

He shakes his head, and hair falls into his eyes. “No. There has never been a single moment when I wanted you dead.”

“Even when I was your enemy?”

“You were _never_ my enemy,” he says empathically, resting an elbow on his knee. “My opponent, yes. But I could never have harmed you.”

“Do you still hate me?”

A beat. “No, Rey. I’m not sure I ever did. Not from that moment when you pulled your lightsaber out of the snow and into your hand.”

Her eyebrows rise. “My lightsaber? I thought that was your _birth-right_?” The final word drips from her lips like poison.

He cringes, and the expression reminds her so much of Ben – her dream Ben – that her heartbeat quickens, and she has to turn away. She hears the creak of leather, and out of her corner of her eye, sees him run a gloved hand over his face. His other hand remains gloriously bare.

When he speaks again, his voice is soft. “I don’t think it was ever meant to be mine,” he says, and she has never seen him so defeated and weary. Not even on Crait. She can almost _hear_ the cracks in his very soul. “Kyber crystals… they form a bond with the Jedi who wields them – a kinship, as it were. When you… borrowed my lightsaber, did it feel different than when you used your own?”

Rey hesitates, and a few seconds pass before she nods. That crackling red saber _had_ felt foreign in her hands; whereas her own saber felt like an extension of herself, a deep connection between wielder and weapon. She thinks of Mara Jade’s borrowed purple lightsaber, still heavy against her thigh. No matter how focussed and well-executed the saber forms she performed with it, there was an absence. 

“I felt the same with your lightsaber – I only used it briefly, but it wasn’t… connected to me. Not the way it is to you.” Ben shakes his head. “My grandfather’s saber clearly sees more in common with you; a spiritual kinship, as it were. It may pass through my hands, be part of my family legacy, but it will never be mine.”

He looks so utterly forlorn, and she has to bite down on the twinge of sympathy it stirs within her. 

“What did you do with it, anyway?” Ben asks, a sudden eagerness in him. “Do you have the shards with you?”

Rey shakes her head. “No, I left them with Leia.”

He frowns again at her casual use of his mother’s name. His gloved fingers flex a few times. “No, I suppose it’s probably a good thing you didn’t bring it here. Not after…” he trails off, and makes a limp gesture with his hands.

“This place,” Rey says, drawing her arms around her even as gooseflesh pimples her skin. “I know something dreadful happened. The whole building seems like it’s… grieving? What happened here, Ben?”

He chews his lip for a moment. “Have you ever heard of Order 66?”

“You know I haven’t.”

He makes a contemplative sound, and nods. “When the Empire was born, Sidious - the Emperor - ordered the elimination of the Jedi Order.” His voice hardens. “They were massacred by the same troopers they had fought alongside during the Clone Wars. A few stragglers escaped, and went into hiding.”

Rey hitches a breath, an overwhelming sense of agony percolating through her. “And Vader…?”

Ben nods. “Helped with the slaughter. With that same lightsaber we damn near killed each other over.”

The longing and regret Rey feels over that broken relic suddenly evaporates. Using it now… it would feel _tainted;_ even if somehow she had found a secret in the _Aionomicum_ to repair its crystal, the weight of its dark past would linger ever in her mind. 

Perhaps her shielding is weakening, perhaps the thought slips through to him. At any rate, Ben gives a wry chuckle. “A lightsaber doesn’t know anything about mortality, Rey. It doesn’t contemplate what it destroys. It merely obeys its master. Skywalker, he used that saber once too. Perhaps between the two of you, you ‘redeemed’ it,” he adds, his mouth forming a moue of distaste. “I don’t suppose I was entitled to the better side of the family legacy, anyway. Too much Vader, too little Skywalker.” His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, and he fixed Rey with a deliberate stare. “Would you be offended if I said that I was jealous of you?”

She snorts. “Depends on what you mean by that. But, I’ve had some time to think,” she says, and meets his gaze unwaveringly. “Once, I wanted that sort of legacy - a dream to keep my spirit alive when I was half-dead from starvation. But Finn-” and she feels a flare of his irritation at the name, sees colour filling his cheeks, “He reminded me that I don’t need it. That there’s nothing wrong with being an orphan nobody. I can be proud of being _nothing.”_

“But you’re not _nothing._ Not to me,” Ben tells her. She tries to push out of her mind the last time he had used those words, lest she shatter this timid truce between them. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?”

Rey shakes her head. 

His mouth makes that half-smile, his lips still closed, before he speaks again. “I see a woman who has overcome every obstacle the galaxy has thrown at her. Who grew up powerless, but embraces her power. Who fought hard, every day for survival. Who channels even her anger and darkest impulses to help others, even if they don’t deserve it. Who suffered cruelty and starvation, and still chooses to be kind.”

“I’ve never been kind to you,” she answers in a surprisingly thick voice. 

“I’m your enemy, Rey.” Ben reaches for her hand - such a casual action - and she does not withdraw. She lets his warm palm glide over her knuckles, feels a mutual tension thrum between them. Slowly, tentatively, she turns her palm to his, and entwines their fingers. A surprised sound escapes him, and he brushes his thumb against hers. Every touch is electric.

At least both of their shieldings remain intact, and only words pass between them now.

“Even though,” and his voice begins to break, his eyes moist, and his palm clammy against her own, “Even though I wish you had taken my hand… I’m proud of you. Truly. I know I’m not what you wanted me to be - and I know that I _taint_ you with this bond…”He grimaces for a moment, before his expression melts to one filled with compassion and tenderness. “But I do care for you.”

Tears trickle down her own cheeks. “You want an Empress, Ben. I can’t be that.”

“And you want a penitent light side warrior,” he whispers, unable to meet her gaze, even as his thumb continues to draw small circles against her skin. “That isn’t me.”

How she manages to contain the sob which threatens to rip forth, Rey doesn’t know. She feels raw and exposed, the same sensations echoing in his mind. 

“So what do we do now?” She asks, and is startled by how steady her voice sounds, even as her emotions are in a tumult. “This bond isn’t going away.”

Ben looks at their joined hands for a moment more, before tilting his eyes to meet hers. “No, it isn’t.”

_And I don’t want it to._

_Neither do I._

“I think…” Rey says hesitantly, “That if we had met under different circumstances… Maybe we might have been… friends?” 

The notion is ridiculous, but he gives a chuckle. “And what’s to stop us exploring that now?”

Han Solo’s blood on his son’s hands. That terrifying interrogation on Starkiller. The scars on Finn’s body from when he was almost sliced open over a now destroyed lightsaber. The nonchalant way he watched Resistance ships burn in a haze of ion-cannon fire. Then wanton death and destruction he almost visited upon her friends in the dust of Crait. She has a thousand reasons why she shouldn’t…

But instead she tightens her grip on his hand, her own palms as warm and sweaty as his. A wave of _rightness_ settles over them both. 

Even if, in the deepest recesses of her heart, Rey knows this can’t last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter’s emotional support/devastation music: _Ghost_ by Ella Henderson, and _I’ll Stand By You_ by The Pretenders
> 
> I had hoped to get this chapter out last weekend, but a fickle muse and a need to purge some melodrama via a one-shot put that on hold. Hoping to get the next chapter out in a much more timely fashion!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading/commenting :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happily ever after is tantalisingly within reach, and yet so far away for a star-crossed scavenger and the dark Prince with the broken soul… Politics, partings and personal loving abound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [Fran aka Galactic Idiots](https://twitter.com/galacticidiots) whose beautiful [Twitter post](https://twitter.com/galacticidiots/status/1286616432323760128) inspired the scar touch moment.

Every second with her hand in his causes Ben’s skin to sing with pleasure. Even in the face of their confessions, their fingers remain entwined. And as for the bond…

What had once been a pleasant hum in the back of his mind is now all-consuming. He feels the echo of her heartbeat in his chest. Every exhale of breath is synchronised to hers. This must be the vergence… Right?

Another tear meanders down Rey’s cheek. Ben quashes the urge to reach out and wipe it away. Would she consider it too forward? Then, he remembers his other hand is still encased in the tight leather of his glove. Removing the garment would be simple enough, but he is unwilling to break their embrace to do so.

Even as the Force whispers that soon enough they will have to part. 

Ben banishes that thought to the recesses of his mind, intoxicated with this feeling of  _ Rey,  _ more potent and dizzying than any narcotic. Everything about today has been surreal. Their picnic here - in a library - in  _ this  _ library, feels almost  _ naughty. _ Kylo Ren has desecrated the Jedi legacy in so many ways; an illicit library picnic is trivial in comparison. He feels a strange sense of mourning for the boy he should have been: without Snoke, without that blasted  _ Skywalker legacy _ hanging over him. An adolescent whose only acts of rebellion were backchat, sneaking out and perhaps ‘borrowing’ his father’s junk heap freighter, rather than falling to the Dark Side.

But he extinguishes that line of thought before it chokes him.

Instead, he focuses on here. Now.

Their whispered confessions hang in the silence. Delight and torment war within his heart. Seeing Rey again - being in her physical presence for the first time since the  _ Supremacy _ \- is the most exquisite agony.

Her thumb traces the underside of his palm. The skin is so sensitive, so unused to any gentle touch, he almost hisses with the sensation.

“This isn’t a dream, is it?” He says suddenly. 

Rey bites her lip, and shakes her head. “I doubt we’d feel so miserable if it was.” And she continues to draw small circles on his flesh.

Her eyes are puffy and bloodshot from their shared tears. They have penetrated the layer of dust clinging to her cheeks, leaving pale tracks like a scar.

That thought must slip to Rey’s mind, as she offers him a watery smile. Her other hand reaches for his face.

A lifetime of pain under Snoke’s tutelage is hard to break. Ben tenses, and it would imperceptible to all but the woman whose soul is so thoroughly enmeshed with his. Her expression hardens, but she does not lower her hand.

Slowly enough that he may pull away, her fingers brush a lock of hair from his brow; he had not even realised it had fallen into his eyes. She traces the path of his scar - from forehead down to his chin. Her fingers are calloused - not the soft delicate hands of a Supreme Leader’s bride, but the powerful hands of a scavenger, a warrior.

As her fingers linger at the portion of scar over his cheek, his breath ghosts over her palm. She exhales a shuddering breath. Ben’s eyes flutter closed. He twists his head marginally and allows his lips to brush over her palm.

She gasps, and her shields crack enough to let a single thought slip through.

_ Softer than I imagined… _

Masculine pride, unfamiliar and delicious, rises within him. 

And when her fingers fall away, and he opens his eyes, Rey’s gaze is settled on their still-joined hands. Heat floods her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. Her grip on his hand seems to loosen marginally, and he cannot bear the thought of losing her touch.

“I’m not.”

Her eyes snap back to his. Her noses scrunches almost adorably as she tries to decipher the line of his thoughts. But she remains silent, and the quiet is suddenly more momentous than earlier.

Ben cannot help but recall that first moment they had touched hands. Of what might have transpired in the following moments had Skywalker not unceremoniously burst in. 

Without realising, he tenses, and twists his neck as if expecting another ill-timed visit from his Uncle. 

But the only ghosts here are the sins of his forefather.

He then notes that Rey has done the same, and shoots her a quizzical look.

She shrugs. “We didn’t get this far last time,” she says meaningfully. Her teeth come out to worry at her lower lip, and Ben prays his mental shielding remains robust because he can’t have any more of his nocturnal fantasies loosed upon her.

“I don’t know if I should tell you this,” Rey says, and slowly withdraws her hand. He almost mewls from the loss of contact. “But I think… I think you deserve my honesty.” She swallows. “Luke - he appeared to me. Today.”

Ben blinks. “When?”

“A few minutes before you arrived.” 

He laughs darkly; but the sound softens at her bewildered expression.“Skywalker, you bastard,” he says, shaking his head. 

“Has he… appeared to you too?”

“With annoying frequency. And you?” Ben says, with a roll of his eyes.

“This was the first time,” Rey tells him. “And probably the last.” There is a strange coldness to her, and surprise crosses Ben’s face. 

“Oh?”

“I asked him…” She sighs, and meets his eyes with a fierce stare. “I wanted to know why, if the Jedi past could appear, that none of them reached out to  _ you.  _ Warned you about Snoke,  _ protected  _ you from him!”

Bile rises within his throat - of  _ course  _ she would know of his speaking to a half-melted mask, crying out into the Force for a guiding hand. He had torn into her mind, naively believing she would be defenceless… Only to fall into a trap as she had ripped away every facade and found the words to  _ wound  _ him. 

_ You’re afraid that you will never be as strong as Darth Vader... _

He  _ had  _ sought to embrace the Dark as his bride; assuage his troubled soul with reassurances that this was his path. The approval of a grandfather he had never known - and until adulthood, never known the  _ truth  _ of - to quash the lingering touch of Light within him.

And Rey - fierce, beautiful Rey - believed that Anakin Skywalker’s voice would have steered him down a very different path…

_ Would it? _

“There was a time, - until recently - when I wanted nothing more than that.” His voice is low, without inflection, and he senses her strain to Rey strain to hear. “Well, almost nothing,” he adds, and surely she must feel that heat crackling between them. “But I don’t  _ need  _ their guidance anymore.” 

Then, his forehead creases. Her defences are weakening, and whilst he shouldn’t… he probs gently at her mind. 

But she does not resist; and he plunges into her welcoming mind.

_ He sees a rain-soaked island; storms swirling in the distance. Skywalker, lying bloodied and prone in the mud, a quarterstaff pointed at his chest. _

_ “Did you do it?” she snarls; vicious and terrifying and  _ **_magnificent._ ** _ “Did you try to murder him? Did  _ **_you_ ** _ create Kylo Ren?” _

_ A spar, frantic: student versus mentor, her rage an inferno against which Skywalker cannot win. _

_ All in defence of Ben Solo. _

The memory fades, and undignified, gasping sobs rip from him. When was the last time  _ anyone  _ defended Ben Solo? Fear, loathing, these had been his constant companions. He needed only be in the vicinity of Skywalker’s flaming temple for blame to fall on his shoulders. And he had accepted that blame. In the throes of Snoke and his murmured promises about the Dark, he had  _ relished  _ it. 

Yet, even though she had witnessed him strike down Han Solo, Rey  _ still  _ believed that there was light in him. Still believed that his broken soul might one day be healed, and that he could go back to the boy he once was.

She had been wrong, but that passionate faith was more than he could have ever imagined from anyone. 

Mental barricades become useless; his emotions so raw, so exposed… Every dark thought, every recrimination he projects to her. Thoughts, emotions bleed between them, until Ben cannot tell where he ends and she begins.

Motes of dust float in the air around her and catch snatches of pale sunlight. She looks almost ethereal; his beautiful scavenger. But though she flushes to the roots of her hair, she does not look away. Instead, she tugs off his other glove, and suddenly  _ both  _ of his hands are entwined with both of hers. 

“Thank you,” he tells her thickly. 

Gods, it will  _ kill  _ him when he has to leave this place without her.

* * *

Even after their mutual emotional tumult has quieted, and the tears have dried on their cheeks, Rey keeps her hand in his. And it feels  _ right. _

Talking with Ben is devastatingly  _ easy _ . And talk they do, for endless hours. Even with so many topics forbidden to them, words flow freely. 

Conversation has never been easy for Rey; even with her new friends, she finds herself slipping out of conversations, the idea of pleasant company still so novel. The aching loneliness of Jakku had never facilitated her with the skills of small talk and socialisation. So for now, she enjoys listening.

And it has been so very long since anyone wanted to listen to Ben Solo _.  _ The Supreme Leader issues orders, yells battle commands, dictates the ebb and flow of the galaxy. They know his tempers, his caprices. But that lost and lonely adolescent within him just wants to share his soul, his heart, his thoughts that have no consequence on anyone but himself. 

He doesn’t smile - not quite - but sometimes she catches a tremulous smirk playing on his lips. That rage, always bubbling so close to the surface, is now quiescent. She would not go as far to describe him as  _ happy _ . But Ben Solo is content. 

In the Jedi Temple.

With her.

And with every moment, the bond only seems to strengthen. What had been a string between their souls and minds is now as robust as durasteel.

In a strange way, Rey is almost grateful for Mara’s absence. This would not have happened the same way if she had been here. And, callous as it makes her feel (a thought she shields from Ben), she doesn’t want her to rush back. She  _ wants _ these quiet moments, just the two of them.

They wander between half-toppled bookshelves. He neglects the shattered holobooks, and seeks out ancient tomes with leather bindings and fine calligraphy. They sit side by side on the dusty floor, their legs touching, as he pours over different texts. Some are in languages neither of them can read, with obscure drawings and diagrams. But they seem to make some kind of sense to him at least. 

Ben, Rey comes to learn, has the mind of a scholar. Though he had once earned the sobriquet of Jedi killer, his knowledge of their history and lore was vast. Even if the condition and disorganisation of the library frustrates him. It is such an utterly mundane thing to irk him…

That prickle of jealousy snaps at her again. Rey had always been curious, eager to learn - but there was little time for knowledge beyond the practical. Ship schematics, where to find the highest-yield tech, the signs of a sandstorm approaching… The knowledge of how to survive the Goazan Badlands.

In contrast, Ben’s studies had been for simple enjoyment. He could spend hours lost in galactic history; in long-neglected tales and legends; indulge in whatever intellectual whim took his fancy at the moment, while away the hours drawing and sketching star maps, ever secure in the knowledge that there would always be food, water, comfort… 

But then again, Rey has always had the sanctity of her own mind. 

He has clearly been here before. Perhaps Luke had taken his nephew here, years before he had ever contemplated raising a saber against him in anger. She wants to know more - but he feels centred for the first time, and no curiosity is worth disturbing that new equilibrium.

So she listens as he talks. Of the Great Sith War; of a far older and greater Library than this on the planet Ossus destroyed in the conflict.

“I would have loved to have seen it at its prime,” he murmurs. “It’s nothing but ruins now - overrun with vines and moss.”

“There’s beauty in ruins too,” Rey says, running her fingers over a faded sketch of the Great Jedi Library in the book currently nestled in Ben’s lap. “Like here.” She gestures to their surroundings. “And hidden treasure too, if you only know where to look…” 

That hesitant half-smile appears on his lips. He takes her hand again, and brushes his thumb over her knuckles. “Then we’ll go there one day, and see what we can scavenge together.”

It’s a heady fantasy… but Rey has to tear her gaze away. A fantasy is all it can ever be.

When hunger and thirst snap at them, they share the rest of her canteen of water. Ben offers her the final spiced cake, but after an almost companionable argument, they split it, and a ration bar.

In a kinder universe, Ben would have been in his element here. A scholar, or - what was that word he used? - a  _ librarian _ . Tall enough to reach books on all but the highest stacks, fussy about mess, and always so  _ eager  _ to share his knowledge.

Rey tries to forget that he had offered her his tuition once. Even as she enjoys this quiet closeness developing between them, she knows that the Supreme Leader is lurking just beneath the surface of her friend...

* * *

The hour grows late, shadows lengthen. Every blinking second on the chronometer alerts Ben to the shortness of their time together. 

The precious bond, now as powerful as life itself, will fray when he has to leave. But he lingers as long as he can; until the chronometer is no longer simply blinking, but beeping angrily. The mantle of Kylo Ren looms over him still.

Rey grows quiet, and he senses her carefully re-erecting her mental shields. “Ben…?”

He sighs, and reaches for her hand again. How baffling that this has grown to be the norm for then over the last few hours. “My reason for coming to Coruscant approaches.”

“You didn’t come just for this?” There is an attempt at levity in her tone, but it doesn’t meet her eyes. 

“No. Although having a picnic here definitely isn’t the most egregious way I’ve ever desecrated a Jedi temple... this was fun.” 

“You need a new definition of fun.” She says, unable to meet his gaze.

He chuckles. “You’re probably right.” He rubs a hand over his face. That conflict within him brews and bubbles.

This day was always destined to come to an end. But for the first time in so long, he feels  _ alive.  _ Not an automaton, going through the motions. Not a raging, snarling beast fueled by a lifetime of pain. There is a strange peace in being here with her.

And yet now he must leave.

Ben takes a minute just to look at her, and commit her face to memory. The smattering of freckles on her cheeks, the tiny scar on her cheek, every golden fleck in her hazel eyes. How her loosened hair falls limp about her shoulders. If only he could freeze this moment and live in it forever...

“So I suppose this is… goodbye?” Rey says.

He frowns. “For all the times we’ve parted before,” he says slowly, “I don’t think we’ve ever actually said that word.” Then, a thought grips him so powerful that it wipes all other notions from his mind. “Rey… Stay.”

“Ben,” she says warningly. “ You  _ promised  _ you would let me leave.”

He rubs his free hand over the back of his neck. Words have been his downfall before, and he chooses them carefully now, lest this tentative peace crumble.  “I did. And if you choose to go, there will be no repercussions. On you, on the Coruscanti, even on the Resistance. You remain free to leave, Rey. But I’m not ready to say goodbye.” He shakes his head. “My duties… tonight… it would be neither wise nor safe for you to accompany me. But tomorrow…” his eyes gleam with promise, and his tone has never been more earnest. “ I’ll come back, and maybe we can just… talk, again?”

Rey’s only answer is contemplative silence.

And now he begins to babble. “If you’re worried about food, I’ll bring some more. As many cakes as you like. Fresh fruit, too. Anything you want from me, I will give you. Just please-” His tone grows plaintive, and he cringes at how pathetic and  _ needy  _ he sounds. But if it means that she agrees, he will prostrate himself at her very feet. “Stay.”

She moistens her lips, and he wants so desperately to feel them against his own. But to kiss her, and then leave her here?  _ No _ . Ben knows one touch of her lips will not be enough. It takes all of his willpower not to wrap himself around her like a vine and never leave. 

One hand is still holding hers. With his other, he twists a tendril of her hair in his fingers. He imagines burying that whole hand in her locks; helping her brush them before they fall into bed; twisting her hair into a lover’s knot that declares to the world that she is his. And that he is hers.

But instead, he tucks it behind the shell of her ear, and lets his fingers graze her jawline. Earlier, Rey had touched his face. But he had not indulged in his desire to touch her. So he hooks a finger beneath her chin, and tips it up to meet him.

She doesn’t recoil; he almost imagines that her body cants towards his. Her eyelashes flutter, and an unsaid question fills her eyes.

He leans closer, letting his breath ghost over her brow before he presses his lips against her forehead. He tastes sweat and dust upon her skin. A little gasp escapes her, and he allows his lips to linger a moment longer. This is so much more than a kiss - it is a promise, a benediction.

“Stay,” he whispers against her skin.

She looks at him with soft, longing eyes that settle on his lips, as if daring him to do more. To capture her mouth in a bruising kiss, to swallow her sighs, to whisper a different promise against her lips…

His heart is heavy as a durasteel weight as he pulls away from her. She makes no move to hide her disappointment; he feels it entangle with his own, a crushing weight upon them both.

“Goodbye, Ben,” she whispers.

* * *

The wine glass in Hux's hand catches the light as he swirls the purple drink within it. Not a vintage he would have personally chosen - expensive didn’t necessarily equate with good - but if it kept his host from nothing his distaste, then the action was satisfactory.

And Armand Valorum, the aged director of the Sienar-Jaemus Corporation, had never been accused of having good taste.

Still, poor choice of wine was the least of Hux’s disappointments today.

Ren inveigling himself into this little trip being his primary complaint. And now, an hour past their planned rendezvous time, he is yet to make an appearance. Whilst punctuality may not necessarily be Ren’s strength, this was humiliating.

When Hux had commed the  _ Finalizer, _ in so potent a rage that his face was undoubtedly puce, Lieutenant Mitaka had stammered that Ren had in fact taken his shuttle to Coruscant before dawn.

_ That _ spiked an interest in Hux… Given Ren’s insistence on coming to these negotiations, what had tempted him planet-side hours earlier, and was now delaying his arrival?

No, today had simply been a series of debacles, most of which he could not even find the satisfaction of blaming Ren for.

Upon making planetfall, Hux had set out for the Uscara District. Whilst the Sienar-Jaemus negotiations had provided a convenient reason for his visit to Coruscant, he had other motives.

Namely, conducting his own investigation into the death of Captain Skerris.

Whilst he had never even met the man, the idea of one of his officers falling victim to an assassination, and remained as yet unpunished filled him with a rage which would not quiet. The lacklustre investigation of the Coruscanti Security Force continued to infuriate him - weeks, and not even a half-legitimate lead!

Hux has never been a lover of mysteries. Problems have answers - under-performing systems can always be made more efficient, and every technical fault has a solution if one merely applies the right tools.

Unfortunately, the right tools seem to be sorely lacking when it comes to this particular problem.

He had poured over the Order’s own reports with a critical eye, and memorised every detail. Skerris had left his meeting with the same Sienar-Jaemus executives Hux himself was now dining with in the early afternoon. He had checked in with his junior officers, and then made a comment about “unwinding”; this was the last they had heard of him until his body was found in a disreputable alley the following morn.

As to his planned destination, none of his officers could tell Hux.

_ No, he wasn’t the sort to visit a brothel. Yes, he did have a mistress, but she was off planet at the time of his death. Yes, he enjoyed a drink, but rarely in the afternoon - he preferred fine dining, the sort of establishments that his father might have taken him in the days of the old Empire.  _

Hux had spent hours wandering the upper echelons of the district. There were precious few places that might fit the criteria Skerris’ underlings had given him (and that was assuming their information was by any means accurate in the first place). The obvious choice - the old Imperial Tea House - was his first stop.

At least one of the waiters - a harassed and deferential Mon Calamari - remembered seeing Skerris on multiple occasions, and made a show of being shocked at hearing of his death. But he could neither confirm that Skerris had dined here on the day of his death, nor the identity of any dining companions on any of his prior visits.

Visits to three other establishments had proved equally fruitless.

Of course, Hux rationalised that he could descend into the lower levels and continue his investigations there… But the hour was late, and if the Resistance truly had a presence here on Coruscant, he would not grant them the satisfaction of taking him unawares. (Ren too, would no doubt be jubilant if Hux were to be slain in the deepest recesses of Galactic City’s entertainment district - he would search for the culprit with the sole intent of  _ thanking _ them.)

Hux takes another sip, and his musing are interrupted when the hulking figure of the  _ Supreme Leader  _ appears in the room. 

Only a full hour late.

Ren seems more frustrated than usual - so tightly wound that he might snap at the slightest provocation. Even across the room, Hux can see that Ren’s hair is damp and his skin flushed. To all intents and purposes, he looks as though he has only recently emerged from the ‘fresher. A torrent of possibilities run through Hux’s mind. His first thought is that the Supreme Leader had visited a brothel to slake his physical desires; but his demeanour is not that of a man who had experienced recent gratification.

(Of course, Hux would rather think of anything else than…  _ that, _ especially when it came to Kylo Ren.)

Another mystery then… He gives an inward groan.

The standard formalities and pleasantries are exchanged. Hux and Pryde stand as one and offer their military salute. Valorum and his deputy, a pale, scrawny man named Kaplan, both bow so deeply that their brows almost kiss the floor. Valorum in particular takes to fawning over the Supreme Leader. Ren, it transpires, had flown many of their experimental ships (the TIE silencer model he so favoured – a touch too flashy for Hux’s own tastes), and had provided the corporation with, in Valorum’s words, “Such wonderfully detailed reports!”

Once this little sycophantic display is over, Ren slides into a chair opposite his generals. Hux casts a glimpse at Pryde, who sits sipping his own wine even as Ren's glass remains sullenly untouched. The Supreme Leader sits taut, his attention clearly elsewhere. Ren's distraction, to the untrained eye, could easily be mistaken for boredom. 

But Hux can almost hear the cogs turning in Ren’s mind.

A twi’lek servant girl bustles into the room, and lays down plates of roasted bantha before each of them with a subservient bow and coo. Hux’s stomach gives an appreciative growl, but neither his hosts nor the Supreme Leader give any indication of noticing, although Pryde does cast a sly glance at the young general. 

The food is heavily seasoned, on the wrong side of palpable to Hux’s tastes, but he makes a show of enjoyment. Ren, on the other hands, seems to poke at the meal with his fork and barely eats three bites before pushing it aside. 

Valorum does not miss the action; gnarled fingers scratch his snow-white beard, and sweat begins to bead on his brow. He is old enough, Hux thinks, to have seen both the rise and decline of the old Empire. Does he see the bearing of Vader in the grandson sitting before him?

“Gentlemen,” Pryde's crawling tone cut through the silence. “As pleasurable as your company alone is, perhaps it is time we get to the matter at hand?”

"Of course, Allegiant-General!” Valorum says; though his tone is almost relaxed, his posture remains tense.

At those words, Ren suddenly seems to animate. He leans forward, elbows on the fine black marble table, and steeples his fingers.

Pryde looks to Ren for ascent to continue. The Supreme Leader blinks, before giving only the merest of nods. 

“You may have encountered certain... propagandas, from the so called Galactic Resistance... pertaining to the loss of our flagship, The  _ Supremacy _ ?” Pryde begins in a thin, reedy tone. “Obviously, we suffered loss of troops and many of our TIE fighters.

Although none speak it, the phrase  _ Holdo manoeuvre _ hung in the air.

The two executives begin a stream of flattery, chatter and general cursing of the Resistance, before Ren interrupts by lifting his left hand. Silence falls, and all eyes are upon his.

“Executive Valorum,” he says slowly. “I see that your company has an excellent opportunity for expansion in its future.” He then leans back in his chair. “Would I be correct in recalling that certain… vestiges of New Republic law had curtailed some of your plans to do so?”

Valorum’s face creases. “And what,” he says hesitantly, casting a wary glance to his younger colleague, “Would you suggest, Supreme Leader?” He looks very much like he has been made to swallow a bitter taste.

Ren’s lips contort into a smirk, and Hux has to take a swill of wine to hide his grimace at the expression. “The First Order has no interest in preserving the more… stringent… laws of the New Republic. Tell me, do you have any connections with the Incom-FreiTek Corporation?”

At the mention of the name, Valorum’s eyes grow impossibly wide. “Minimal - a few of our more junior executives inevitably mingle with theirs at trade fairs and the like; and last year, I did find myself sharing a table with Thracken Madine at the Core Bank Gala, but I doubt we exchanged more than a few words.” His voice suddenly takes on a nectar-like quality. “You aren’t thinking of exchanging your TIE silencer for an X-wing, are you, Supreme Leader?”

A dark chuckle escapes Ren’s lips. “I would sooner replace my hand with a wooden stub,” he says. “You misunderstand my meaning, Valorum. I was merely referring to how, at your current share of the arms market, that certain archaic competition laws might… prohibit your corporation from expressing an interest in, say… merging with them?” Varloum splutters, and Kaplan has to apply a few firm smacks to the older man’s back. But Ren continues undeterred. “And, with the loss of the New Republic navy, I suspect your competitor may find themselves in some… financial difficulties, and may be more amenable to a takeover.”

Kaplan’s pale eyes light up; like Hux, he had caught the direction of Ren’s thoughts, and followed them to their inevitable destination. 

But the doddering old fool is much slower off the mark. “And, assuming Sienar-Jaemus does elect to , ah…  _ merge  _ with Incom-FreiTek… You wish us to sell to both yourselves and the Resistance-” A nervous smile crept onto his lips.

Pryde clearly sees the storm raging in Ren’s eyes, behind the impassable mask of his face. “I believe the Supreme Leader is suggesting you halt the production of X-Wings altogether.” The Allegiant General’s eyes flash, he gives something that might pass for a smile, had it not looked so unnatural on his sallow features. “Of course, the purchase of such a large organisation - even one facing financial ruin - would be costly.” At Ren's agreeing silence, he continues, “But since we have come to discuss expansions of the First Order fleet, I am sure the capital generated by supplying us will more than cover the takeover of Incom-FreiTek.”

Behind his glass, a grin blooms on Hux’s lips - although he will later blame it on indigestion. Irksome as it is to admit, Ren’s plan actually makes sense. Cut off anyone who would sell to the Resistance, by force or simple political manoeuvring. Leave the rebel scum with decades old ships only, cripple them with vast technological superiority. It was... neat. Something that might pass for admiration crossed Hux’s mind.

Still, he thinks, it would be good to blow whichever backwater world the Resistance are currently hiding on to smithereens with another Starkiller… He lets his mind drift, recalls that blood-red beam penetrating the sky – so clean, so beautiful, it’s burn visible to thousands of worlds. It’s loss had been a gaping chasm within Hux, only propagated by Ren’s complete disinterest in reviving the project.

No matter – let Ren have his fun playing the boy Emperor. Before the year is out, Hux will see a rebirth of his pet project. 

With or without Ren’s consent.

* * *

Dark settles over Coruscant; and in the stillness and shadows of the Archives, Rey paces. In the eerie stillness, she hears the echo of her every footstep; but it does not drown out the turbulence in her mind.

Since the moment she watched him walk away, reluctance in every motion, she had tried to push Ben from her thoughts. But the bond still crackles and buzzes at the back of her mind. 

A chill creeps over her skin, piercing her down to the marrow. Except for the spot he had pressed his lips against her brow; that patch of skin positively  _ burns. _ There had been a moment - just fleeting - as his eyes had roved her face and settled upon her lips, that Rey wondered - no, hoped - that he might kiss her.

But he had not; and instead had torn himself from her grasp and left her with a plea. 

_ Stay.  _

She had heard those words as a command from her parents, when they had abandoned her to the cruel desert and crueler hands of Unkar Plutt. 

And barely a day ago, Mara Jade had issued that same command - a more sincere promise than that of her treacherous parents. But still she has not returned;  Rey  _ knows  _ she should make her way to the Spaceport.

_ Find a transport to Bespin,  _ she recites.  _ Find Lando Calrissian. _

But she is so very tired… And Ben’s parting request to her still purrs in her mind.  _ Stay… _

Bespin will still be here tomorrow; as will Ben. 

She is not deferring her decision. Not yet. Come dawn, there will still be a choice to be made. That she has no idea what she will decide perturbs Rey. A lifetime of struggles, and yet she has always been so certain in her choices. 

Weariness seeps into her bones. Even her soul is exhausted. Sleep will clear her mind, clarify her choice…

She hopes.

So she curls up on the floor, opposite the spot where she and Ben had sat together and pored over the ancient texts. Her satchel will do as a pillow; and loathe as she is to soil it, she drapes that beautiful sea-blue shawl over her as a blanket.  She has slept in hammocks, and even on those stone benches on Ahch To.  The floor is hard - but she has endured worse beds. 

Seeing Ben again, feeling the thrum and intensity of his presence even now... Rey feels off balance. Even now, the connection between pulses. Not with the power of earlier, but still a constant sensation in her mind.

Her skin tingles with the memory of his touch. 

That brief grazing of fingers in the hut on Ahch-To. Hundreds of light years, and galactic war between them; yet they had reached for one another. Found solace and comfort and understanding. 

He had passed her a cake with his ungloved hand, and their fingers had brushed once again. Another vision shared, but this time, she saw the falsehood behind it. A beautiful image, but not enough to cause her to abandon sense and reason and ship herself to the most heavily guarded vessel in the galaxy.

And those long, delicious moments when they had entwined their fingers, the bond aflame with their tearful confession.

The feel of his scar beneath her fingertips.

The tender way he had brushed away a tendril of her hair, and the glancing caress of his lips against her brow.

Oh, gods,  _ his hands. _

Those hands… soaked with blood, with sin.

Those hands she had imagined mapping every inch of her skin in dreams.

Her skin feels hot, like a fever. Her pulse quickens, and there is a growing dampness at the apex of her thighs.

_ No-one needs to know _ , she tells herself as a hand slips beneath the waistband of her trousers. This is just a physical catharsis. It means  _ nothing _ .

_ Liar,  _ her inner voice whispers as her fingers caress the dampness, and yield to every secret and shameful yearning of her body. Her dreams have provided her with more than enough fodder for her fantasies. Dreams of his kiss; of his touch; of his broad, scarred chest (and she dares not think too carefully of the sin that prompted those scars, lest she lose her arousal). 

Rey dreams of pressing him against the half-toppled bookshelf, of plundering his mouth with her own, of all the secret and shameful yearnings of her body late at night.

This is sacrilege, that inner voice tells her again, even as she claps a hand over her mouth to stifle a moan. This horrible, haunted place… and she is pleasuring herself to thoughts of a man she should not  _ want _ .

_ But you  _ **_do_ ** _ want him, _ she reminds herself as the pleasure builds.  _ Otherwise you would be gone from here already. _

She imagines the caress of his huge, warm hands against her flesh. She imagines the feel of his weight upon her, sheltered from the outside world by his body as he moves above her, within her.

She imagines what will transpire between them tomorrow if she stays; what further barriers will be torn down between them.

What his hands will do to her…

Oh, gods,  _ those hands... _

When she comes, her cries echoing into the stillness, there is no release of tension.

Only nausea, regret and guilt.

* * *

She settles into a shallow rest. Around her, the air seems to vibrate with whispers, and her heart still aches beneath her breast.

But somehow, Rey sleeps.

Until the sound of footsteps fill the air.

Groggily, she fumbles for the lightsaber; her arms have become tangled in the shawl and she loses valuable seconds. But soon she is on her feet, hand hovering over the ignition for the blade. 

Her heart pounds; so loud that this visitor must hear it. 

The bond still thrums, but nowhere near the intensity of earlier. Ben is still there, always at the edge of her consciousness - but it is not him who approaches. This new seems to vibrate with rage, with panic, with a swirling darkness so thick it is almost choking.

Unconsciously, Rey ignites the saber. 

“Rey?!” comes a familiar, incredulous voice in the darkness, before Mara Jade steps into the view.

She looks  _ awful _ . In the glow of the purple saber, it is obvious that her clothes are saturated with blood. But that is nothing compared to the haunted look in her eyes. Her lip is split, and she holds a hand to her left side. The other clutches her blaster with an almost imperceptible tremor.

Mingled relief and horror fill Rey. She extinguishes the blade, and breath leaves her chest in short pants. “Mara…”

“What are you even still doing here?” She snaps, then her expression softens. “Your loyalty is appreciated, but I told you not to wait for me.”

“Mara… What happened?” Rey’s mind flashes with a dozen horrifying scenarios. 

“I wasn’t lucky,” she deadpans, replacing her blaster in its holster. But despite the casual tone, there is an undercurrent of panic to her voice. “Rey… I don’t mean to scare you, but we need to get off Coruscant.  _ Now _ .” She places a hand on Rey’s shoulder, and fixes her with a serious stare. “The First Order are here.”

In her groggy state, Rey cannot even feign surprise beyond a few blinks. Ben had been here - and as the Supreme Leader, his fleet would surely be close behind… And he had talked of business on Coruscant…

“Two of their Star Destroyers pulled into the Sector this morning,” Mara says, and Rey suddenly finds herself being tugged by the hand towards the passageway they had entered the library via - kriff, was that only yesterday? It feels to Rey that she has already lived a lifetime in these last few hours…

_ Ben. _

Tomorrow, he will return and find only ghosts and shadows in the Archive. It feels cruel to leave him without a word, without a farewell - too much like their other partings. The mad notion takes her to write a note. But, she rationalises, the inkwells here are long dry, and,  how would she have done it without Mara noticing?

And what would she even say?

Everything becomes reflexive. Mara’s voice grows indistinct but Rey follows her like an automaton. The bond, ever buzzing at the edges of her consciousness, suddenly seems to fray. A mounting heaviness settles over her limbs, worse than a day scrambling for scraps in the ruins of a Star Destroyer. 

Behind her breastbone, she feels her heart crumbling with every step she takes.

* * *

The journey back to the  _ Finalizer  _ is agonising. He can still sense Rey on the planet, and every moment takes him further away from her. 

In the archives, their bond was strong, unyielding, like a rope wound of durasteel. Was it the vergence, their openness and honesty with each other, or a combination of the two?

But now, he feels it is growing weaker with every klik between them. Their hearts, their very souls, are still intrinsically linked; but her heart no longer beats alongside his within his chest, and he catches only the faintest sense of her emotions.

Regret is bitter taste in his mouth. She had sworn never to leave with him - a promise he had all too readily agreed to, when sense rather than emotion ruled his actions. But  _ he  _ should never have left her.

So he clings to the promise of tomorrow. 

Ben has never kept hold of anything he wanted. He thought he wanted power - but even wielding that does not fill the void in his very being. Tonight, he had moved pieces on the Dejarik board of galactic politics, manipulated powerful men to his own ends. Yet, the rush of satisfaction he initially felt was replaced by a discomfort that he could not rationalise. 

What he was missing, what is  _ still missing  _ is something more essential.  _ Love _ . He wants - no, he  _ needs _ it, as crucial to his being as air or water. He has been starving for the gentleness of another. Rey is the one soul in half a lifetime who has offered him that.

And his own foolish words in the aftermath of Snoke’s death had ruined any chance of him keeping her. His own hold on power is paper thin. Hux and Pryde already circle like carrion eaters. One error, and they will surely devour him. 

So how can he ever hope to rehabilitate her reputation in the eyes of the First Order so that they accept her as his Empress? 

_ You want an Empress, Ben. I can’t be that. _

No words of promise were given on her end, but he sensed the longing in her heart. Felt the same pain echoing in her soul. Oh Force, she  _ has  _ to stay. 

Another fantasy trips through his mind - of returning to the Archives tomorrow, of twirling her in his arms and peppering her cheeks with kisses. Of tasting her kiss in return. 

But that will merely delay their inevitable parting; the longer he spends with her, the deeper their connection grows, the more broken he will be left when she does abandon him. 

Or  _ he  _ has to leave her once more.

It all feels almost  _ sordid.  _ Leaving her on the planet yet sneaking back to her arms, day after day, like she is his mistress engaged in a tawdry affair rather. This precious bond between them is pure, unsullied. 

And the longer he lingers on Coruscant, the greater chance of Pryde and Hux having surveillance placed on him. Of knowing of his visits to the Jedi Library, and of precisely whom he meets there.

There is no solution to be found tonight, he knows as he strips for bed. Deferring the decision until tomorrow will change nothing; but at least he can enjoy the memories of today without the taint of an uncertain future.

The hours pass as he awake, aching and wanting. His mind focuses on the connection between their souls, now as fine and delicate as gossamer. 

He feels the cord pull again.

This time, it  _ snaps. _

And Ben knows that, if he returns to the library tomorrow, only emptiness will greet him.

Rey is gone. She did not stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the continued reading and support. I know a few people were hoping for a little Mara Jade interruption to the reunion… But these two have had enough interruptions, and I hope they will benefit from the catharsis of having at least talked to one another. (And more *evil laugh*)
> 
> Besides, I want Super Space Aunt Mara to have a proper, undiluted chance to bond with her Supreme Idiot of a nephew… (And with a much better outcome than Legends canon, I hasten to add!)
> 
> Emotional support/devastation music: _Work_ by Jimmy Eat World, and _Vampire Smile_ by Kyla La Grange (recommended by the lovely and incredibly supportive Rey_Lo!)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback time! A day in the life of the original Star Wars enemies-to-lovers. Meanwhile, back in the present, Mara and Rey make their escape from Coruscant, and plot Phase Two of their Fetch Quest™. Also, why is everyone in this galaxy obsessed with cake?!

**Twenty Seven Years Earlier…**

_The Ysalmari shroud was thick, and every vestige of the Force was blocked from her. Mara Jade was not frightened. The Emperor’s Hand was no-one’s prey - she was the ultimate predator. Yet, her stomach flipped with something suspiciously close to fear._

_It was not_ **_fear_ ** _; merely frustration at allowing herself to be captured._

_And perhaps a smidge of anger directed at the reason for her confinement._

_She had chased Skywalker across the Mid-Rim for weeks - from Naboo to Kashyyyk to Takodana; and every time, he had slipped through her grasp. Mounting ire had made her careless - when she had_ ** _finally_** _caught up with him en route back from that Force-forsaken tenth-rate planet he once called home, her usually meticulous planning was but a memory._

_And they had wandered right into the grasp of Black Sun._

_Mara groused - being apprehended was humiliating enough. That this had been a capture of sheer opportunity and dumb luck enraged her. Foolish, foolish woman. She had hoped to emerge as Skywalker’s jailer as a minimum, if not his victorious assassin._

_Instead, she had let her obsessive need for vengeance compromise her sense. And soon, she knew with a chill jolting down every nerve, she would pay dearly for her carelessness._

_Their mutual imprisonment would provide a double bounty for their jailers - the New Republic would pay a pretty reward to have Skywalker returned unharmed. (Or, failing that, the Organa accounts were amply stocked, and the Alderaanian Princess would turn it over in its entirety for the safety of her twin brother)._

_As for Mara… She closed her eyes. A decade in a prison colony on Kessel under the New Republic banner would be infinitely preferable to what Zekka Thyne would have planned for her..._

_Anger was easier, and more familiar, than terror._

_She growled at the young man before her, who seemed entirely too at ease with being powerless and confined with his adversary (even if she was equally as powerless and trapped)._

_"Just so you know," she said, leaning back against the durasteel wall, feeling the unsettling thrum of the vessel’s engines as they hurtled through hyperspace, "This... truce, is over the minute we get out of here alive."_

_"Wouldn't have it any other way," came his nonchalant reply; but he could not mask the semblance of a smile from his lips. Mara snorted, and decided to focus her attention on anything other than Skywalker. Her leather boots were_ **_filthy_ ** _, and she began to scrub at the dirt with a touch too much aggression. Better to quell her rage temporarily with this, rather than throttle her tentative ally, running their only chance of escape._

_The whole time, she could feel him regarding her in silence._

_"Do you like cake?" Skywalker said suddenly._

_"Pardon?" Mara said, narrowing her eyes._

_"I was asking if you like cake. You know, baked good, full of nectar? Popular with children?"_

_"And this is relevant to our situation, how? Are you planning on negotiating with Black Sun over confectionary?” she snorted. “Or is this one of the charming ways you farm boys like to pass the time?"_

_"So I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then?"_

_Mara grimaced; if he kept up this inane line of conversation, she would either develop a migraine or commit murder. (And she had little to no qualms regarding the latter). "Fine,” she said, uncaring if he heard the frustration in her tone. “For what it's worth, yes, I like cake. Coruscant spiced cakes, specifically. Fresh from the oven with lashings of cream, and a pot of Galentean tea, if we’re getting_ ** _really_** _personal."_

_He grinned. "Huh?"_

_"Well, what were you expecting me to say?” She snapped, her ire rising with this inane line of questioning. “That I only eat stale bread dipped in the blood of the innocents?"_

_He chortled, and the sound was clearly designed just to piss her off. "Just reflecting on something that was once said to me." There was a sudden wistfulness in his eyes._

_"That if you're trapped with a woman baying for your blood, distract her with talk of cake in the hope she doesn't strangle you while you sleep?"_

_He shook his head, and a few stray hairs fell in his eyes. "An old... friend... made a suggestion to me. Back when I didn't know who Vader was, back when he was just the monster in a mask who I thought murdered my father... My... friend suggested that if I ever came face to face with him, I should ask him if he liked cake.”_

_“Charming notion,” she said through gritted teeth, leaning her head against the cool durasteel of their shared cell. “Makes it all the more embarrassing for the Empire that it fell in spite of such_ **_brilliant_ ** _military tactics.”_

_“If you would let me get to her point…” Skywalker suddenly became fascinated with a scuff mark on his leather boots, wiping at it even as he spoke. “If Vader said yes, then he was once human - and maybe, there was still a human behind the mask; someone worthy of redemption. If he said no to the cake question, then he was unquestionably a monster."_

_"Your friend has an odd view of morality, farm boy. So, according to her logic, am I worthy of redemption?”_

_"Definitely," he said, though his grin had long faded._

_The abrupt change in his demeanour prompted Mara to ask, "And where is this friend of yours now?"_

_His face hardened; the look did not suit him at all. "She died fighting the Empire."_

_"You were... in love with her." There was no question in Mara’s tone._

_"I don’t know, love is probably a bit strong - she was pretty, and smart, and fierce. It would have been nice to... explore that connection further, but it wasn't meant to be."_

_Mara felt uncomfortable with this unexpected surge of emotions. Skywalker was projecting onto her - the pangs and regret of lost love. She shook her head, and stood up. "I'll make you a deal, farm boy," she said, trying to inject some levity into her tone. "We_ **_are_ ** _going to get out of here alive - both of us. And when we do, I’ll grant you a two day head start before I resume this little vengeance quest.”_

_“And why would you do that?"_

_Her tone was positively acerbic. “Because I'd feel bad if I let you die a virgin.”_

_The affronted look on his face was a bounty almost as worthwhile as his head on a pike._

_===_

_Later that night, in the cold of their shared cell, Mara listened to the sound of his breathing. It irked her, how easily he could drift in the face of his enemy. Months ago, it would have been so easy to creep over, place her hands around his slim neck, and squeeze... or snap his neck, or strangle him with a ripped length of fabric from her shirt._

_Now, it just felt.... Unsportsmanlike._

_===_

_Come the morning, Luke had smiled at her when he awoke. "Seems I survived the night after all,” he said on a yawn._

_“Indeed.” She brushed her fingers through her tangled hair, trying to fashion it into a simple plait. “Apparently my sweet tooth now renders me incapable of murdering a man in his sleep.”_

_“A revelation indeed.”_

* * *

**Present day:**

The journey back to the _Jade’s Fire_ is a blur. They weave a path through the streets of Galactic City, between shadows and flashing signage. Mara keeps a bruised hand on Rey’s shoulder, and does not relax her grip until they reach the SpacePort.

Without the shawl, Rey feels strangely exposed. They had wrapped it around Mara’s torso to conceal the sticky blood saturating her clothing. If the First Order…

 _No._ Ben had sworn that she would be free to leave. Even as he had pleaded with her to stay… A murderer, a warlord, a megalomaniac he may be; but there was no attempt at deceit or concealment across their bond. He had been sincere in his promise, sealed with (and she hitches her breath at the thought) a kiss… 

But now that bond is cracking, the tether between their two souls buckling and breaking with every step she takes away from the Archives. Her heart _aches._ Absently, she rubs a hand against her breastbone, but it will not quell the agony.

_Is Ben in as much pain as I am?_

Rey remains silent for the rest of their trip. Mara comments on it only once, but allows it to propagate. 

Even when they board the ship, and Rey settles into the co-pilot’s chair; even as the engines thrum with takeoff, even as Mara’s Force signature crackles with anxiety she cannot fully shield from her pupil… Rey knows her heart is breaking.

“Did you find the ledger?” Mara asks suddenly, her eyes never leaving the viewport as she steers the _Jade’s Fire_ to enter atmo. 

The ledger… their sole reason for visiting Coruscant and the Library in the first instance. So swept up in the Supreme Leader’s arrival, in _Ben Solo,_ she had almost forgotten… 

Rey nods numbly. 

“Good,” Mara murmurs absentmindedly. Her bruised knuckles clutch the control yoke; her fingers are bone white. 

The buildings of Coruscant grow smaller, and the blinding lights fade to mere pinpricks on the horizon. The _Jade’s Fire_ glides smoothly through the planet’s exosphere. Rey exhales a slow breath, one she barely even realised she had been holding. No fleet of TIE fighters follow them; no Upsilon class shuttle crosses their scanners. 

Were it not for the two enormous Star Destroyers hovering just at the edge of her view, great imposing monoliths in the emptiness of space, there would almost be no indication of any First Order presence in the system.

_Well, apart from the hours you spent with the Supreme Leader..._

So lost in her own agitation, Rey had not stopped to wonder what the Coruscanti had felt once those vessels appeared in their skies. After the Hosian cataclysm, those Star Destroyers have become harbingers of doom. Even with Starkiller now destroyed ( _for now,_ a traitorous little voice whispers in Rey’s mind), the appearance of the First Order can spell no good for a system.

She feels for Ben in the bond, grasping at its tendrils to discern his emotional state. Though all she can capture is echoes, the contentment that had filled him - filled them both - in those precious stolen hours in the Archives has faded. His emotions are in a jumble: fatigue, loneliness, desperation, but slicing through them all like a flash of lightning in the dark is _hope._

Hope that is now crumbling to dust.

It takes Rey a moment to realise what had been missing amidst the gallimaufry of Ben’s emotions. _Malice._ Even when he had raised his saber against her - in those seconds before he realised just _who_ his opponent was - there was no malice then either.

Whatever his reasons for coming to Coruscant, it had not been to issue a declaration of war. 

Mara’s voice pierces Rey’s thoughts. “We’re going to jump to hyperspace in a moment,” she says, her gaze fixed on the control panel. “We’ll take the Corellian Run towards the Outer Rim, and we’ll work out a plan from there.”

A perfunctory nod is the only reply Rey can offer. The pain in her heart seems to magnify with every klik, and her grasp on Ben’s emotions - on their bond - grows ever more tenuous. 

A series of beeps announce that Mara has engaged the hyperdrive. Rey grips the armrest of the co-pilot’s seat, and barely notices her body propelled forward as they lurch into hyperspace.

All she feels is profound agony, as though her heart has been amputated; and the aching emptiness as the bond shatters.

It takes all her willpower not to gasp, to sob; she closes her eyes, and tries to suppress her memories of the Archives. Of the touch of his hand; of his tremulous not-quite-smile; of the feeling of his thigh brushing against hers; of earnest eyes and a quiet entreaty to stay.

Of the glancing kiss he had placed against her brow, and the disappointment that he had not allowed his lips to descend lower and claim her mouth…

So she packages her emotions away; regret, disappointment all buried beneath the facade she had placed around herself after Crait. She banishes everything until she is hollow once more.

Her eyes remain fixed on the blue flashes of hyperspace, until she notices Mara exhale a deep breath and lean forward in the pilot’s seat.

“Whilst I commend your loyalty, Rey,” she says tersely, “If I ever fail to come back within our agreed timeframe again, you _need_ to leave me behind. When I give you an instruction and an escape route, you take it. If the First Order-”

“Duly noted, Master,” Rey says tonelessly. 

That causes a frown to crease Mara’s cheeks. She removes her hand from the controls, and buries her knuckles in her hair. “I can sense that you’re upset,” she says, each word careful and measured. “You think that I abandoned you.” 

Oh, of course… Deceit has never been Rey’s strongest quality, but if it provides a convenient smokescreen for the true reason for her upset, then she will not challenge it. 

“Whose blood is that, Mara?” Rey asks quietly. In the flickering light of hyperspace, she can see that it is not the red blood of a humanoid - and therefore not her mentor’s. Rey would not speak so curtly to her if she were truly injured. In a particularly bright flash, Rey thinks the blood might be green… 

“Turns out I was not lucky,” she quips. But the levity does not meet her haunted eyes. “Also turns out that Dhoortherl had forgotten exactly who he was double-crossing. An error he will not be given the opportunity to repeat.”

There is a finality to her tone; curious as Rey is, she is not certain she wants to know any further details.

Mara stands. “You okay to pilot whilst I-” she gestures to the sticky green fluid saturating her clothing, “Head to the ‘fresher?”

Rey nods, and watches her mentor pad away softly. Once Mara is out of sight, she rubs a hand over the hole that once housed her heart, and allows quiet sobs to wrack her body.

* * *

Compartmentalising had always been Mara’s favoured tactic. Break a task down, and push aside all other thoughts and feelings until it was complete. Of course, without immediate distraction, then this strategy rapidly crumbled.

Once the doors to the captain’s quarters slide shut, once she is free from Rey’s probing gaze and accusatory looks, Mara falls to her knees. Short pants leave her chest, and she screws her eyes shut against the threatening tears.

Even in her weakened and distraught state, she is careful not to crush the precious bundle tucked into her jacket. She drags herself along the floor. Trembling hands remove the bundle from her pocket, and lay it upon her bedside table.

She unwraps the black cloth, and stares for a few moments at the six vials of luminous green Haideria serum. 

Mara drags herself to the ‘fresher. As the water heats and fills the room with mist, she peels off her blood-soaked clothes. Streaks of green, sticky fluid stain her chest and stomach. Bile rises in her throat at the sight.

Even as she stands under the spray, feels the warm caress of water, sees the viridescent evidence of her crimes wash away, there is no peace to be found. The floral scent of gel-soap burns in her nostrils as she scrubs her body furiously, until the skin is red and angry.

Six vials… six lives taken this night. She lets out a weak chuckle even as the tears burst forth. Is that the value of a life in the galaxy now - a vial of Haidera serum? Life has always been cheap - as a former assassin she would be naive to assume otherwise. But it has been such a long time since she had taken life for so trivial a bounty.

She hopes Harter’s pilot is worth the sacrifice.

* * *

It takes time, but Rey’s pulse slows to an even tempo. Regret festers like an open wound in her chest, even as a clarity settles over her. 

Her choice, at the time of Mara’s arrival, had been a nebulous thing, without form. Stay in the Archives and wait for his return come the morrow, or leave and continue walking along the path she had decided for herself in the smouldering ashes of Snoke’s throne room. But deep in her marrow, Rey knows the choice she would have made.

The same one currently breaking her heart.

_You want an Empress, Ben. I can’t be that._

Mara’s reappearance and their need to flee Coruscant had only been the means to facilitate that choice. As much as she _wants_ Ben Solo, as beautiful and intoxicating as those precious hours together had been, this is not the way. He himself had reminded her that he was not two disparate entities - Ben and Kylo were one and the same. And whilst he sits on that cold throne, whilst he still wields the power to burn and subjugate the galaxy at his whim, he cannot be hers and she will not be his.

She thinks of Finn’s haunted look as he had spoken of his past in the Stormtrooper programme. She remembers Jannah’s nocturnal sobs and moans in the throes of a nightmare whose content Rey can surmise. She thinks of Rose clutching that pendant and crying silent tears over the sister who sacrificed herself in the name of the Resistance.

She thinks the dozens of defenceless ships, hundreds of Resistance fighters blown to stardust as she watched helplessly from the viewport on the _Supremacy._ He had the opportunity to save at least some of them; and had instead clawed for power.

She thinks of Han on that nightmare bridge on Starkiller…

The Ben she had dined with in the Archives, whose hand she had held, was that same man who had committed those acts of violence. Whilst he had apologised to her for his cruel words on the _Supremacy,_ he had expressed no other words of repentance. 

Rey lifts a hand to massage her temple. One day will not be enough to decipher the enigma and dichotomy that is Ben Solo. Nor to wade through the quagmire of her own conflicted feelings for him.

Luckily, she is spared from further contemplation by Mara’s return.

Her mentor enters the cockpit, now clad in a loose grey shirt and trousers, and rubbing at her sodden hair with a towel. She has the look of a woman haunted, and given the bloody condition of her attire earlier, Rey can easily guess why she is so off.

Mara slides back into the pilot’s seat, and places her bare feet on the control panel. (Rey can almost picture Chewie and even Han’s wince if she tried that on the _Falcon)._ “Want to use the ‘fresher next?”

Rey shrugs. “I grew up in the desert - I can hold off for a bit.” She reaches for her satchel, pulls out the dusty ledger, and passes it wordlessly to her mentor.

Mara throws aside her towel, and suddenly sits up straight. She turns the book over in her hands, and there is a strange reverence in the act. “You know, Rey…” she says in a barely audible voice, “Sidious spent _years_ searching for this. His acolytes must have torn the Archives apart at least a dozen times trying to find it. Yet, you managed it in under a day.” Amidst the turmoil and pain in her eyes, Rey catches the merest glimmer of what might be _pride._

Words linger on Rey’s tongue for a moment; she is unsure if she ought to broach the subject of her visitor with Mara. A sigh escapes her, and she bites her lip before she says, “I may have had some help.”

Mara arches an eyebrow. “Help?” 

“From Luke.”

Instead of the flicker of shock she expects, her mentor’s face instead becomes as impassable as a mask. “His Force Ghost appeared to you?” she says. At Rey’s answering nod, Mara’s mouth draws into a hard line. Her fingers grip the spine of the book so tightly, her knuckles are almost white beneath their bruises. “And what did you two… talk about?” she asks in a tight voice.

“You might have come up,” Rey says, feeling a flicker of longing break free from Mara’s shielding. “I think he misses you.”

A snort escapes Mara. “Yeah, well, he knows where to find me if he wants to talk about it.” Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, before fixing a serious gaze upon her student. “So, he appears in the Jedi Archives to help you find a book and… what? To garner sympathy for his broken heart? Typical Skywalker - never able to separate the wider conflict from his own personal feelings.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Rey says hesitantly. Force, is she _defending_ Luke Skywallker? Especially after the curt words and accusations she had thrown at him only hours earlier? Especially regarding his nephew… “We also talked about Ben Solo.”

“Ah.” Mara’s face almost seems to soften a little. “Luke dispensing his wisdom on how to best a Sith lord? Because I don’t think the tactics which worked for Vader will necessarily work on Kylo Ren, for a myriad of reasons.”

Rey wonders - albeit fleetingly - if she ought to tell Mara about her connection to Ben. About the bond, the _Supremacy_ , of those hours they had spent together, the confessions they had whispered to one another, the request he had made of her. 

Instead, what tumbles forth from her lips is a question. “Vader came back to the Light, in the end. Do you think the same is possible for Be- for Kylo?”

Mara makes a contemplative sound. She ruffles a hand through her drying hair, other still clutching the forgotten ledger in her lap. Her eyes seem to burrow into Rey. “Luke once gave me a valuable piece of advice, Rey.”

“Always strike first?” she says sarcastically.

“No, that was more Han’s style. If you’re not sure if someone is truly gone to the Dark Side, ask them if they enjoy cake.”

Rey’s eyes widen, and she wonders if Mara has seen into her mind. “Cake?” she says, in a slightly strangled voice.

“Yes, cake. If they say yes, then at least there is something still human within them.”

Rey can still taste the spices of the confectionery she and Kylo had shared in the Archives; his unguarded pleasure at the taste spilling over into her own. “I’m not quite sure redemption works that way,” she says, regretting her words the instant they leave her lips. Lecturing a former Emperor’s Hand in the finer points of redemption was the height of hubris.

To her credit, Mara merely smiles. “I didn’t say it was the sum and total of redemption; merely that it shows potential. Next time he comes at you with a saber, stop and ask him that. The answer may prove elucidating… Or at least a convenient distraction.” Then, she shakes her head. “Speaking of sabers…” she brandishes the ledger. “Shall we start investigating potential destinations over dinner? You must be fam- peckish,” she quickly amends. “I know I am.”

Silently, they made their way to the galley. Whilst Mara busies herself preparing some instant broth, Rey stares at the pages in the ledger.

Keen as she is to finally have a lightsaber of her own - one forged by her own hands, bonded to her soul and untainted by the weight of sin and legacy - she had not contemplated _why_ she needed this weapon specifically. After all, she can defend herself as readily with a blaster or her quarterstaff as with a lightsaber...

Battling Kylo Ren/Ben Solo… is this what they have planned for her? Leia, Mara, the Resistance. The lightsaber she forges will be more than a symbolic weapon - it will be a weapon of war. 

_I’m your enemy, Rey._ Those were the words he had spoken to her. But he has also told her grand sweeping tales of Jedi lore and galactic history; shared those delicious spiced cakes with her… Begged her to stay… _Kissed her._

 _You were never_ **_my_ ** _enemy._

Mara passes her a mug of steaming broth, which she accepts with a grateful nod. “Might be a little stale,” her mentor acknowledges, sniffing at her own meal. “But better than ration bars, I guess?”

The broth warms Rey to her core; it is a little rich for her tastes, but at least the act of eating provides her with a necessary distraction. Whilst she sips at her meal, Mara flicks through the ledger. 

“So, we’re already on the Corellian Run,” she says, nursing the mug with her free hand, “I’ve programmed a route that will take us to a system near Ajan Kloss, but shall we see if there’s anywhere along the run that would suit. It’s got to be small; sparsely populated or better yet, uninhabited.” She taps her finger over numerous entries, and dismisses them with comments about the planet being too large, or on the wrong side of the Outer Rim; a few promising suggestions are written off on the basis of being in Hutt Space, and others are potential targets for First Order conquests and so she skips them. 

Her fingers linger over the entry for a planet called Jedha.

“Do you think-” Rey begins, pushing away her now empty mug, but Mara shakes her head.

“Jedha would have been a fine planet,” she says slowly. “But it’s stardust now. Another casualty of the Death Star.”

So many innocent lives obliterated… Though she had never set foot on Jedha, or Alderaan, or any of the planets or moons of the Hosnian system, Rey feels a pang of grief nonetheless. It mingles with the wound in her heart, that gaping hole the tattered bond now occupies, and she feels nauseous.

Mara looks equally green. “I hope you know, Rey,” she says, her Force signature a cacophony of grief, regret and disgust, “That for all the awful things I once did in Sidious’ name, I was _never_ involved in genocide.” 

She does not say that she would never have become involved, Rey notes. But the Emperor had fallen, Mara had found the Light, and even now she has pledged herself to a cause which puts her in the firing line of the First Order. Whatever dark deeds she has committed in the past ought to stay there. 

And whatever death she had dealt on Coruscant only hours earlier… Mara had been acting on behalf of the Resistance.

Whether Leia would approve of her tactics was perhaps another matter entirely.

* * *

They pour over the list for hours; Mara seems determined to dismiss every possible planet with even the suggestion of a kyber mine, often on trivial grounds. Those with potential First Order presence Rey can at least understand, even if she thinks Mara is being overly cautious in some regards.

She declares Rhommamool a no-go area. Too heavily populated, and the ruling Orarians were likely to be sympathetic to, if not in full alliance with, the First Order.

Mon Gazza is equally out of the question. The Galactic Spice Mining Guild still controlled the system (albeit with a tenuous grasp); but she has heard rumours of remnants of Black Sun in the sector, and that cartel has a notoriously long memory.

Given her eagerness to drag her pupil off on this kyber quest, Rey grows frustrated with Mara’s refusal to actually settle on a destination. Many of the names and places she rhymes off have little-to-no meaning to Rey; but her mentor seems to have at least a passing familiarity with every planet in the Jedi ledger.

There is something in Mara that reminds Rey of Han Solo. Not just their mutual profession - she supposed that it took a certain mix of bravado, daring and shrewdness to draw one to the life of a smuggler - but it was more than that. A coolness and detachment that belied the troubled soul underneath.

Perhaps they had been friends, Han and Mara. She can almost imagine them both in a cantina like Maz’s place on Takodana, laughing over a glass of whiskey and trading outrageous stories, with Chewie rolling his eyes in the background. Two scoundrels, but with far gentler hearts than they allowed the world to see.

But thinking of Han only turns the direction of her thought to Ben once more…

Eventually, after repudiating another dozen potentials, the planet Lah’Mu comes up. Mara stares at the name in contemplative silence for a moment. “We’d have to drop out of the Corellian Run in the Raioballo sector,” she murmurs to herself. “But that _could_ work… Provided we steer well clear of Dantooine…” She clicks her tongue, and then nods. “Lah’Mu it is!”

Rey’s eyes are heavy and she tries to stifle a yawn. Mara shooes her towards one of the guest quarters. “It’s about 20 standards hours to the Raioballo sector,” she tells her. “Get some rest.”

“But you-” Rey begins, before her words are engulfed by another yawn. 

“Look like bantha fodder and need sleep too?” Mara says, regaining some of her familiar levity. Rey merely rolls her eyes. “Oh, don’t worry - I’m heading to bed as well. _My_ ship,” and she lovingly caresses the durasteel wall of the galley, “Has a much more robust and reliable hyperdrive than the _Falcon._ It’s a straight run for most of it, and I only need a few hours anyway.”

Protest is useless; Rey’s limbs are as heavy and aching as they had been after a long day scavenging in the Goazan Badlands. The emotional tumult of the last - kriff, has it only been a day? - have sapped any reserves of energy she might have left.

Her assigned quarters are enormous - almost the size of the lounge in the _Falcon_. The bunk alone could have slept four Resistance members. Rey gives a weak chuckle, remembering the tiny bunk she and Kaydel had been squashed into one evening, and the awkwardness after yet another bumped elbow or knee had prevented either of them from sleeping.

The bed is tempting - and how her body positively screams for sleep - but with sleep, comes dreams. 

Rey brushes a hand to her brow, over the spot where Ben’s lips had lingered. Though no mark had been left, she feels the imprint of his kiss burned onto her skin. Such a simple, chaste gesture… 

Guilt washes over her again.

She toes off her borrowed boots, and peels the dust-and-sweat saturated garments from her weary body. Standing just in her basics, she stands before the viewport. Flashes of light from hyperspace dance across her bare skin. Gooseflesh pimples on her arms, and she rubs them absentmindedly.

She remembers Mara’s suggestion of using the ‘fresher. Though she has been far more unclean before - blood and grease, sweat and sand, often all at once after a long day scavenging - that is the relic of a past life. Time may not wash away the scars of Jakku, but she does not have to force them to re-bleed daily.

The ‘fresher is cool and sterile; she feels filthy as she enters the room. She strips off her final layers, tossing them aside. 

The first jets of water from the showerhead are ice-cold; an involuntary yelp escapes her. But after a few moments, the temperature rises, filling the room with steam. Warm water cascades down her head, her back, and she almost moans from the sensation. She activates the dispenser, and a dollop of floral-scented gel soap fills her hand. Slowly, she massages into her flesh, watching the dirt and sweat of the last hours dissipate and flow down the drain.

Her fingers linger over the scar on her right bicep. Rey closes her eyes as she traces every ridge. _Curious scar,_ Mara had described it as. 

Rey cranes her neck to look at it again. A curious shape indeed - like two hands reaching for each… Across a fire, across the galaxy, across a library… Ben Solo is forever branded onto her flesh, the same way she is onto his.

Her traitorous body seems to react to the mere thought of him now. Even with the mingled pleasure and guilt of her earlier release, that ache in her belly remains unsated.

A frustrated groan escapes her, and she slams her hand against the tiles. 

She turns off the water, and dries herself hurriedly. The towels are downy soft, the gentlest thing she has ever felt against her flesh. Were it not for the torment in her mind, she might almost purr from the sensation of such softness. She towels her hair with excessive Force, before wrapping the now sodden towel around herself.

Back in the main quarters, she notices Mara had laid out some garments atop the bed sheets: a soft grey shirt and loose leggings, similar to what her mentor had worn after her own shower. Rey slips the clothing on - they are a little baggy around her waist, but they will do suffice as sleepwear.

She burrows beneath the bed sheets, almost moaning from the sheer comfort and luxury of it all. Though her thoughts continue to swirl, her relaxed muscles, the warmth of her bed, and the soporific hum of the hyperdrive lull her to sleep.

* * *

When the chronometer tears Kylo from an uneasy sleep, his instinct is to roll over and hope beyond measure that Rey has materialised in his bed that night.

But the sheets are cold, and there is no hint of her presence.

He groans, and rubs a hand against his bare chest. Hours have not fully quelled the ache, but he no longer feels that burning agony where his heart should be.

_Stay._

Such a simple request he had made of Rey. A dark, savage part of his mind remembers that this is in her nature. The girl who waited for over a decade on that Force-forsaken junkyard planet for two cruel, drunken parents who had valued her less than their next bottle of cheap liquor. Any day she could have walked away, but she kept that hellish vigil, the passing years marked only by her daily scratches on the walls of her lonely AT-AT.

For fifteen years she had exiled herself on Jakku waiting for ghosts. Yet, she would not stay a single night on Coruscant for one who would have come back for her, found a way to tilt the galaxy on its axis if it meant being with her.

The emptiness within him fills with baser instincts; anger and dejection thrum like a second heartbeat. He can still feel the ruins of the bond, catch fleeting impressions of her half a galaxy away… but that beautiful closeness and intimacy he had felt whilst they were together on Coruscant is now dead. 

Any feelings of triumph he had scored last night with Sienar-Jaemus now taste like ashes. As had his victory at Kijimi. Only hours ago he had accepted that power meant nothing without Rey at his side. And now she has gone.

 _Eventually,_ **_you_ ** _would have been forced to leave_ **_her_ ** _,_ a voice purrs in his mind.

He is Kylo Ren; he is the Supreme Leader, able to influence the ebb and flow of the galaxy. Pain, sacrifice, he has endured it all to arrive at this position. There are scars on his flesh and on his soul. No matter how beautiful, soft, luminous she is, he cannot forsake this path for a woman who cannot accept him as he is. 

So he buries Ben Solo once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical inspiration/devastation: _She is My Sin_ by Nightwish, and _Love Like Cyanide_ by Sirenia (channelling the symphonic metal this week).
> 
> Thank you for reading! I had hoped to squeeze in a Force Bond reunion between the Star Crossed Space Idiots, but the chapter was just getting a little too long. Never fear - our dyad will be back soon.
> 
> Special thanks to the lovely Rey_Lo for looking over the Mara/Luke scene for me. (Incidentally, she has also posted her first Reylo fanfic, a beautiful dark tale called [Wrap Your Soul Around Mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25716844/chapters/62443711) \- please do read it!)
> 
> The constant cake references aren’t just a product of my sweet tooth and love of baking. The line about asking Vader if he likes cake originates from _Heir to the Jedi_ , and is spoken by the character Nakari Kelen, whose budding romance with Luke Skywalker was cut short by her death. 
> 
> I've been trying for a chapter every 10 days or so, but chapter 16 might be a little delayed as I am also working on fic for the Reylo Readers and Writers Let's Go To the Movies! exchange, and the deadline is in a mere 10 days. I'll do my best to stick to the planned posting schedule though!
> 
>  **Coming up:** A kyber mine tour, a not-quite-lover’s tiff, and maybe Ben left out a few crucial details about the presumed Force Bond hiatus...


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Force reconnects our Star Crossed Idiots - can they reclaim lost ground, or is the closeness between them forever shattered? Mara grows suspicious - and perhaps someone else with less benign intentions becomes aware of the bond between the Supreme Leader and the Last Jedi…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there!
> 
> So, my planned August hiatus dragged on a little longer than I anticipated… Thank you to everyone who has been reading, and I apologise for the delay in updating this fic. By the time I managed to make decent inroads in this chapter, it was almost 10,000 words in length. I have instead decided to split it in two, with the hope of updating by Friday 6th November.  
> As part of NaNoWriMo, I hope to have finished Kintsugi, and will try to stick to a more regimented update pattern.
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story. Your comments are always appreciated, and I hope you enjoy this chapter – filled of course with my signature angst.
> 
> Special thanks to my dear friend [Rey_Lo,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rey_Lo/pseuds/Rey_Lo) who has been unfailing in her support/harassment and is probably 75% of the reason this chapter ever got finished. Please also check out her wonderful WIPs [Awakening](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26687053/chapters/65093797) and [Wrap Your Soul Around Mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25716844/chapters/62443711), both of which are fantastic!

Rey joins Mara in the cockpit as the  _ Jade’s Fire _ drops back into realspace with a shudder. Away from the glimmering lights of hyperspace, Rey blinks drowsily. Although she and Mara had taken it in turns to monitor the cockpit during their time on the Corellian Run - with sufficient time allotted for sleep - her own repose had been far from refreshing.

Though Rey had no recollection of her dreams, the coiling ribbon of desire and moistness of her flesh on waking were reason enough to suppose they had involved  _ him. _

Had Ben also felt that snapping of the bond when she had left the Corusca system? Did his chest now ache with the same senseless agony?

Mara pilots in contemplative silence. Even behind whatever walls she has erected - likely to spare Rey the nastier details of those missing hours on Coruscant - Mara is evidently battling her own demons.

Rey plucks at the end of her hair, lost in thought.

Until the temperature sensor on the console begins to beep angrily. 

“Kark it,” Mara mutters, only hand still on the control yoke whilst she leans over to assess the readings. “Good thing we exited hyperspace when we did - the drive’s cooling system has been temperamental for a while. It would make life a little  _ too  _ easy for the First Order if we simply blew ourselves up,” she deadpans.

But Rey merely grimaces. “Do you want me to take a look at it?” she asks, needing  _ any  _ sort of distraction, lest her thoughts continue down their threatened path...

“Nah,” her mentor says with a shrug. “By my estimation we’ll be there in a little over three hours anyway.” 

“I don’t mind.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Mara’s lips. “Maybe you should have a look at that ledger again - see if you can figure out exactly  _ where _ this kyber mine is. Otherwise, we’ll have to circle the planet until we find it. The quicker we can find you a crystal, and get back to Ajan Kloss, the better.”

Rey bites her lip. “You don’t trust me to fix your ship?” she says flatly.

“Rey.” Mara twists her neck to fix the younger woman with a serious gaze. “I trust you with my life, with my secrets, with my  _ lightsaber… _ but I’m a smuggler. We don’t trust  _ anyone _ with our ships. Han was the same - when I first started out, before I even had my own ship, I tried to make a minor adjustment to the  _ Falcon’s _ navholo. Force, I thought he was going to toss me out the airlock!” She chuckles darkly but her expression remains unchanged. 

But Rey remembers Han’s wonder when she had bypassed the compressor in the  _ Falcon _ , and Chewie’s happiness at her assistance whenever the vessel started misbehaving in some way. Han had trusted her on some inherent level - a stranger, a  _ scavenger  _ and he had allowed her to tinker with his beloved  _ Falcon. _ Almost instantly, he had offered her a job - caged in an acerbic tone, but with unmistakable fondness. Why had he taken her so quickly to his heart?

She rubs a hand over her chest again, and wonders if Han and Leia’s easy openness and acceptance of her had anything to do with her bond to their son? 

Time was continuing to prove the falsehood in Snoke’s claim that he was the creator of their bond. Rey herself suspected that the connection had been forged in those moments when Kylo Ren had ripped into her mind on Starkiller?

But then she remembers that vision when she had held the lightsaber on Takodana… Perhaps that was their first true Force Bond, not the time she had shot at him on Ahch-To… 

_ Why is the Force connecting us, you and I? _

Rey has heard the tale of Leia’s self-rescue from the exploding bridge of the  _ Raddus.  _ The General may have no Jedi training, but she evidently has a degree of Force sensitivity. But Han - as far as she could ascertain - was as Force sensitive as a lump of rock. Yet, he had sensed  _ something  _ in her… the dormant bond with his son, the boy he loved enough to sacrifice his life to save.

A headache begins to bloom behind her eyes. She pinches her brow between her thumb and forefinger.

“You all right?” comes Mara’s voice, soft and concerned. 

Rey forces a smile. “Fine - I’ve left the ledger in my quarters. I’ll be back in a minute.”

But even as she darts out of the cockpit, she can feel the burn of Mara’s gaze upon her back. 

* * *

“You sent for me, Master Ren?”

Kylo does not even bother to lift his gaze from the lightsaber he is currently reassembling. His fingers glance over the crack in his kyber crystal. The crystal hums, and he feels an answering pang in his soul. Force, it had  _ hurt  _ to bleed the crystal. In that moment, he had truly believed that the pain would make him stronger, make him worthy of the Dark's embrace. The Light had not understood him, in the shadow he might find his belonging.

But the Dark never fully embraced him; and now he feels more bereft than ever. 

“I seek a sparring partner,” he says monotonously before reattaching the casing to his saber. 

Even without seeing it, Kylo can sense the grin behind Ap’lek’s helm. His Force signature is awash with excitement and even honour that their leader had singled him out from his brethren.

Truthfully, Kylo could have called upon any of his Knights for the task. But Ap’lek was different - his was a less visceral brutality, with a more strategic and clever approach to battle. Raw aggression had never worked to quiet Kylo’s turmoil, no matter how many walls he had made bleed molten metal. Even the act of smashing his helmet against the walls of the turbo lift on the  _ Supremacy  _ had done naught to quell his unrest.

But if he could not quieten his thoughts, then perhaps he could channel them into other avenues. And Ap’lek would be the ideal sparring partner for such a task.

In this moment, Kylo would try anything to distract himself from the gaping hole where his heart ought to be. Anything to prevent him exhausting his senses and power crying out to her across their bond. 

_ Where are you, Rey? _

_ Why did you leave me? _

_ “If a girl - or boy, or heck, anyone - breaks your heart, _ ” a nectar-toned voice drawls in his memory, “ _ You got two options, kid. Drink away the heartbreak, or - actually, scrap option two. Your Mom’d throw me to the sarlaac if I gave you that advice at your age.” _

Kylo shakes his head. Another ghost, another failed mentor filling his head with nonsense. But whilst he had hated Luke, and resented his parents, Calrissian still occupied a surprisingly neutral place in his heart. He had committed no great hurt against Ben Solo, although his flighty nature and physical distance prevented him from being the reassuring presence that a troubled young man with too much power and too many voices whispering into his mind truly needed.

For a brief heartbeat, Kylo wonders what might have happened had he taken the  _ Grimtaash  _ not to Snoke in the aftermath of the temple destruction, but to Bespin…

Kylo snorts. Uncle Lando would likely have proven as much a failure as every other mentor in his life. No, despite all the pain and torture that had followed, Snoke was the inevitable - nay, the  _ only _ choice.

With the benefit of adulthood, Kylo now suspects Lando’s second, taboo suggestion was to seek comfort in the form of an alternative bedmate. He snorts again. Three decades of sexual repression mean he cannot even sustain a fantasy - nor an erection - sufficient enough to achieve even some masturbatory release.

No, option two was equally ineffective.

Once the lightsaber has been reconstructed to his satisfaction, Kylo eyes Ap’lek with a wolfish leer. The Knight nods his helmeted head, and the two take up positions on opposite sides of the room. 

Kylo closes his eyes, feels the stillness of the ship’s air, the steady thrum of the engines, and allows the Force to pulse through his bloodstream. “First blood?” 

“As you wish, Master Ren.”

And the spar begins. 

Against a lightsaber, a vibro-ax should be an easy weapon to best. He and Rey had done so before - even outnumbered three to one by Snoke’s Praetorian Guard, their lightsabers had cut each of them down and secured their victory.

But Ap’lek is a more erudite opponent - and of the Knights, he is the one with the greatest degree of Force sensitivity. For every blow Kylo tries to land with his lightsaber, Ap’lek has anticipated and begun to parry, or has dropped into a feint and manoeuvred himself from Kylo’s blade. Their weapons spark and hiss against one another, and sweat clings to Kylo’s brow and skin. Around each other they circle - more a dance than a spar - and Kylo bares his teeth in a snarl.

Yes, this  _ distraction _ will do nicely… 

* * *

Two months ago, all Rey had known was the arid sands of Jakku - a barren, sand-scraped landscape, whose only beauty lay in the stars overhead. Though she had gorged herself on the scant tales of  _ elsewhere _ passed between scavengers, merchants, travellers or any other type who might be found hanging around Niima Outpost, deep down she had never imagined that she would be given the opportunity to visit them.

Nor did she imagine that those heroes whose names were whispered in fireside tales among the scavengers would ever enter her life as real people. Han Solo, Luke Skywalker, Princess Leia Organa… the characters which had sustained her childish imagination would eventually enter her life - or perhaps, she thinks a touch ruefully, she blundered into theirs. Nor did she imagine that through her acquaintance with them she would pull away the mythos and legend and find three broken souls underneath.

In the weeks since leaving Niima Outpost, she has seen a galaxy so vastly different from anything she could have envisioned on Jakku. So many strange, foreign environments…

The lush vegetation and crystal clear lake of Takodana… the sight of which had snatched the breath from her lungs.

The steely cold and horrid, utilitarianism of Starkiller Base. The icy forest she had not even taken time to appreciate as she and Finn had been fleeing for their very life, the sight of Han’s plummeting body still burned onto her irises. The scorched, crumbling landscape where she had fought Kylo and left him bleeding and broken on an imploding planet… 

The Resistance Base on D’Qar she remembers little of, so raw with the grief of Han’s death and her fears over Finn’s precarious survival… But she will never forget the memory of being pulled into a tender embrace by a stranger: the fearsome yet tender Leia Organa. 

The snapping winds and aching dampness of Ahch-To, her emotions as turbulent as the roiling seawaves. Skywalker had not been what she expected. (And that was without even considering those feelings as the force had begun to connect her to Ben).

The heady, dizzying lush jungle of Ajan Kloss; those first breaths of truly fresh air in  _ days. _

And latterly, the filthy jungle of stone and durasteel that was Coruscant. Endless throngs of bodies, too much noise and smog, and the constant sensory overload of the metropolis. The aching agony of memory within the Jedi Archives even as the bond sighed with delight as she and Ben grew closer…

And now, as the  _ Jade’s Fire  _ approaches the atmosphere of their destination, she feels a thrill of anticipation. What strange and novel environment will greet her when they land on Lah’mu?

The ledger from the Jedi Archives had, as with all things Rey had come to learn of the Jedi and their ways, been frustratingly vague on the specifics of the kyber cave’s location. 

But, as soon as they ship sinks through the clouds, Rey hears a whispering, dulcet melody within her mind. A breathless gasp escapes her. She turns to Mara, whose expression is one of soft wonder, so at odds with her tightly coiled emotions of earlier.

“Is that-?” Rey says, her mouth suddenly parched.

Mara nods slowly. “Kyber crystals have a degree of sentience. It’s how they bond to their wielder. I think…” She gives a shrug. “I think that, even without a map, if we follow the song we’ll find the cave."

And she begins to navigate the  _ Jade’s Fire  _ into a descent. With bated breath, Rey watches as they sink through wispy white clouds to the planet below.

Moonlight shimmers on black soil, and beyond lush green hills are the first hints of a grey dawn peeking over the horizon. 

And with every moment, that melody in Rey's mind only grows louder. Her skin tingles with the intensity, but it is oddly soothing. She supposes this would be what a lullaby might sound like - not that the people who sold her like scrap would ever have sung such to her.

As they drift over the planet’s surface, there are but a few scattered settlements and farms. No towns or cities or outposts.

Finally, the song reaches a crescendo as they sail over a cragged mountain range. 

A satisfied smile fills Mara's lips. “This is the place. Although… looks like we have a long walk ahead of us. Even if we had speeders, the terrain is probably too rough. Better get your walking boots on, Rey.”

* * *

Once the J _ ade’s Fire _ has landed, and moonlight melted to a grey dawn, and their stomachs filled with more rations, Mara passes Rey a thick coat with a hood, before shrugging on a similar garment. She then hands Rey a set of goggles, before strapping a blaster to her own thigh.

“Ready?”

Rey nods as the ramp lowers and she takes her first breath of air on this new planet.

For all Lah’mu’s strange beauty, the atmosphere is thick with the stench of sulphur. “It smells like something died here,” Rey says, wrinkling her nose. Mara chuckles in response, and wordlessly passes Rey a thick black scarf. She wraps it around her nose and mouth, and encourages Rey to do the same. 

It doesn’t entirely block out the stench of decay, but it makes things more tolerable.

“The mine is only a few kliks ahead,” Mara says, before retrieving a set of macrobinoculars from her large pocket. She fiddles with the dials a few times, before a curse escapes her. “Karking garbage,” she mutters. “You go ahead, stretch your legs. There’s another pair back in the storage room. I won’t be more than a few minutes. Are you armed?”

Rey pats an unseen bulge at her hip, where Mara’s lightsaber is nestled beneath her thick coat.

“Good - this place is far enough off the First Order’s radar that we should be safe enough… but I’d rather not run afoul of any irate locals.”

There is a bite of cold in the air as Rey steps onto the planet’s surface. She toes the black soil, and wishes to run her fingers through it. (She avoids comparisons to Ben’s dark hair, and her desire to card her fingers through it).

She meanders a slow path towards the mountains. With every step, the dulcet whispering of the kyber mine grows, soft and beckoning. Even if her feelings are conflicted with regards to her bondmate; even if her heart still feels raw behind her breastbone, she feels a ribbon of excitement coil in her chest. 

Mara had spoken with such longing and poignancy of the kyber mine on Ilum. Rey cannot imagine any beauty ever existing on that horrid planet; now destroyed and its remnants now scattered as stardust across the galaxy.

All she can remember is bubbling anger, bone-deep fear, horror…

As if on cue - the Force either has dreadful timing, or a bizarre sense of irony - she feels that buzzing on the edge of her consciousness.

In some naive part of her mind, Rey had wondered if seeing Ben again - albeit through the bond - might soothe the aching in her heart.

So, she stills her breathing, and waits for his appearance.

* * *

Kylo’s muscles ache. His garments and hair are saturated with sweat, and he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. 

Still, he and Ap’lek circle each other, two loth-cats posed to strike. He feels mentally exhausted - Aplek’s constant feints and moves have kept him alert, and despite his intense years of training, Kylo has yet to land a single blow on his opponent.

He raises his saber to strike again…

Then, he senses it. That low whine at the back of his mind, the herald of their connection opening. 

That split second loss of focus is all it takes for Ap’lek to bludgeon him, and knock the Supreme Leader to the floor like some unskilled and pathetic padawan.

Behind his helm, Ap’lek must be grinning maniacally. “You know, Master Ren,” he says, waves of smugness radiating from him. “Once, I would have been obligated to kill you and take your place, having bested you in combat.”

Kylo staggers to his feet, eyes darting frantically around the room for any sign of Rey’s appearance. “But not now?”

Ap’lek shrugs. “Too much paperwork.” he leans his vibroblade against his shoulder. “Best of three, Supreme leader?”

Of course, Kylo’s pride demands a rematch. But, the memory of the last day he had appeared to Rey mid-training,of the withering and final look she had shot him, burns within his mind. 

So he shakes his head. “Tomorrow,” he says in a dispassionate voice, anathema to the traitorous heart thumping in his breast. “Leave me.”

Let Ap’lek feel that the Supreme leader is a sore loser. Hell, let him brag of his victory to the other Knights if he wishes. He could broadcast it over the entire HoloNet, for all Kylo cares. 

And then, all other thoughts evaporate as Rey materialises before him.

She is clearly not on Coruscant - as if the shattering of their connection was not proof enough, she is dressed for the wilderness. A padded coat swallows her slender frame. Dark goggles conceal her eyes, and even her face is hidden behind a thick scarf. Were it not for the unmistakable pulse of her Force signature (as intimate and familiar as his own), he would scarcely recognise her.

Breaths escape him in short pants. He smooths a hand through sweat-slicked hair, even as his traitorous body trembles at her proximity.

Rey unwinds the scarf from around her mouth. Her nose scrunches adorably - and he cares not if it is the stench of his training-battered body which offends her so. 

Once the goggles are upon her brow, they stare at each other in silence. Around them, the bond sighs at their reunion.

“You didn’t stay,” he says.

Rey shakes her head. Her lips are flat, neither a frown nor a smile. “I couldn’t.” 

“Couldn't or didn't want to?” he counters.

“You had business to attend to. So did I.”

Rey is many things - impulsive, quick to react with anger and raised weapons. But Kylo knows that she had never been deceitful. Quite the opposite - her face and her eyes are overly honest. So, he listens for the words she does  _ not _ say.

_ I didn’t want to stay. _

_ Those hours we spent together meant nothing to me. _

**_You_ ** _ mean nothing to me. _

And that quells his anger. His next breath is slow, shuddering and utterly relieved. 

For a few minutes, the two stare at each other in silence. It is Kylo who breaks it with a wry chuckle.

Rey raises her eyebrows at him.

“You know, every time the bond connects us, we've never been able to fight," he muses. "That's always something we've done when we've been in the same physical space. Except, that day in the library… we somehow managed to talk to share the same air, without death and destruction following.”

“Yet.” That word lands upon him like a punch. “But as far as the First Order is concerned, I’m sure that destruction won't be far behind.” 

Kylo frowns. “Under Snoke, maybe. But things are different now.”

Rey actually has the audacity to  _ cackle _ . “Different, how? You essentially admitted that one of your officers wants to put a bounty out on me. You blamed me for Snoke’s death. And I’m sure the inhabitants of Hayes Minor, or whatever sector you and your dreadnaughts are trampling through now, wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between you and Snoke.” She folds her arms across her waist, and fixes him with a cold stare. 

Oh, how he wants to tell her about the children of Kijimi. About how very different he is from his predecessor. But refusing to kidnap and enslave children seems an awfully low bar. Instead he settles for petulant silence. 

His reticence only seems to embolden Rey. “You have so much power and influence, Ben. There are so many things you do -  _ positive  _ things, not just blasting your way through the galaxy and subjugating system after system.”

“Oh, and what do you suggest?” He snaps, and then cringes. Words, temper… they have been his downfall when it comes to Rey. 

“Well, there’s slavery in the Outer Rim for start,” she says. "With all the resources at the Order’s disposal…” She trails off.

He feels a sudden snap of cold in the air, and the scent of sulphur fills nostrils. Not the sterile, still atmosphere on the  _ Finalizer _ . Even beneath her heavy coat, Rey shivers. When their connection had opened, her face had been covered… and even now, wisps of her hair flutter in some unseen breeze.

This chilled, foul air is coming from  _ her _ surroundings, not his. Kylo files that information away for later, and instead focuses on her now and how the chasm in his heart had been less painful since her re-appearance.

“ _ We _ could do so much more,” he says in a beseeching tone. “I want to be better; I don't want to repeat the mistakes of the past.”

But Rey gives a sad shake of her head. “I thought we discussed this, Ben. While there’s a war between us, there can never be a  _ we _ .”

_ No matter how much I wish it were otherwise.  _ Those unspoken words hang in the air.

Kylo swallows; nods curtly. “I know…” He steps forward, and brushes a stray hair from her brow. 

It feels different, touching her through the bond. Though his skin still tingles with the contact, it feels muted. Kylo lowers his forehead to hers, and they share a sigh in the breath before the Force tears them apart.

* * *

By the time Mara emerges from the ship's storage room, a fully operational pair of macrobinoculars in hand, a growing discontent pricks at the edge of her thoughts. Her eyes flutter closed, one hand against the durasteel wall. She feels the ebb and flow of the Force - but it does not hiss with danger. 

Why then the disquiet coiling in her gut? 

It would be easy to quash that feeling - blame it on the lingering traces of what happened on Coruscant. But no matter what her allegiance has been in conflict, in business, in love… Mara has always trusted in her instincts.

Right now, those instincts are positively screaming. 

Then, she feels a shift in the Force, powerful and raw as the crash of a wave upon the shore. The motes of dust in the air grow still, as if suspended in amber. And the only sound Mara hears is the thudding of her own heart. Even the kyber crystals have quieted their singing.

Her gut contorts, and frantic feet carry her towards the cockpit. Reaching out, she finds Rey's Force signature awash with turmoil. Yet, the only fear Mara senses is her own.

The cockpit doors open with a hiss, and she sprints towards the transparisteel window. Mara scans the horizon, and spots Rey a few kliks ahead on the planet's surface.

But she is not alone.

A towering man, bedecked in black, stands but a few feet away from the girl. Even at a distance, obscured by the grime of space debris and two decade's absence, Mara recognises the figure.

_ Ben Solo. _

_ Kylo Ren.  _

So much for avoiding the First Order… they had wandered right into the path of the kriffing _Supreme Leader_ himself.

Reflexively, Mara reaches for her blaster. Blood pounds in her ears. She remembers a little boy, feet barely skimming the floor and a smudge of cream upon his dimpled cheeks as he smiled at her. 

And that memory stills her hand, long enough to recognise that something is profoundly  _ wrong  _ with this picture…

Rey and Ben -  _ Kylo _ , she mentally amends - are not fighting. Neither even has a weapon drawn. Foolish though the notion may be, Mara swears that the two seem to be just… talking? 

Her eyes narrow.

She watches Kylo run a hand through his hair - her heart aches from the familiarity of the gesture. 

_ So much like his father… _

That thought is like a splash of ice water. Fingers tighten around her blaster handle, but it remains holstered against her thigh. 

Then, she watches Kylo step closer, and touch Rey’s cheek. But the girl does not recoil. No, she actually  _ leans _ into his caress, and the two move closer as if to kiss...

Mara tears her gaze away, feeling like a voyeur in some intimate moment-

-Between two people who should have no business, no reason, to regard each other with anything other than enmity and loathing.

A thirst for answers grips Mara. She breaks into a sprint, bounding through the galley and down the ramp, ignoring the sulphur that burns her lungs in her desperation to reach them…

Except, as she skids to a halt before Rey, she finds the girl entirely alone on the planet's surface, the wind whipping at tear-stained cheeks. 

“Mara!” She squeaks, hastily wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. "Did you find the macrobinoculars?"

Mara blinks, before lamely patting a bulge in her coat pocket. A thousand questions linger on her tongue. For a moment, she half-wonders if she had hallucinated the whole scene. 

A brief cast out with the Force reveals them to be completely alone. No other souls - or Force signatures, for that matter - brush against hers, save for Rey's. 

The girl’s emotions are in a jumble - sorrow and relief, doubt and surety swirling around her. And how badly Mara wants to probe, to interrogate and demand.

_ Why was Ben Solo here with you? Where did he go? And why does it seem like your heart is breaking? _

Instead, Mara forces a too bright tone. “Come on, my not-quite Padawan… We have a long walk ahead of us.”

Rey nods wordlessly, and replaces her goggles and makeshift mask.

And as the two begin their ascent of the hills in silence, as Mara pretends to ignore the occasional sniffles that even a borrowed scarf can’t silence.

* * *

Though he would never vocalise it to anyone, let alone his brethren, Ap’lek has never truly felt a kinship with his fellow Knights. Too coarse in their thoughts, too undignified and brutal in their manners of battle. Whilst he derived some joy in the act of slaughter, in the slow trickle and rapid gushing of blood, in choked cries and gasped last breaths, it easily grew stale.

He liked to use his prowess of thought as much as physicality and the Force in battle. Though all of the Knights were Force adopts, Ap'lek knew his sensitivity was far deeper and superior to theirs. Not as much as his Master, he acknowledged, but then again he lacked the impressive pedigree of having Vader as his grand sire. 

Yet - even though they would never be equals in either rank or power - he felt the greatest affinity with Kylo Ren. Perhaps that was why the Supreme Leader had singled him out to spar with. It had been a good match - one that kept Ap’lek’s mind as razor sharp as his muscles - and his eventual victory has been the most delicious of bounty.

Except… it had not been a true victory, had it? In the final seconds, a distraction had taken over his Master, one that allowed Ap'lek to land his triumphant blow. 

Barely had he time to comprehend his win, to offer a taunt, before Ap'lek felt it - a shudder in the Force, like a stone dropped in a pool of water and causing ripples to spread. A wave of intense, raw  _ power _ brushed up against him. No sooner had he felt it than Kylo Ren had dismissed him. But this was not the act of an embarrassed and disgruntled opponent. 

His Master had never been adept at shielding his emotions. Even in the last years under Snoke's tutelage, he remained but a hair's breadth away from an outburst. Adolescent impulsivity in a grown man’s body. Ap’lek chuckled darkly at the memory of molten walls and consoles wrecked at the blade of a lightsaber.

No, the emotion Kylo Ren had projected was one of nervous anticipation.

Ap’lek ought to have followed orders, and slunk proudly away to relish in his victory. But he was certainly not one to follow mindless orders - such concessions would make him little better than a droid or a subservient Stormtrooper. And something in the behaviour of his Master, and the bizarre shifting of the Force, caused him to linger.

Before the door hissed shut, he caught the impression of another Force signature - one of such raw power that it rivalled Kylo Ren's. Beneath his helm, Ap’lek frowned, and watched as another figure appeared in the training room. A figure who, upon unmasking, was familiar to him from the holovids.

The scavenger girl. The Jedi assassin. 

His blood seethed. How, what, and a dozen other questions raged through Ap’lek’s mind before they settled on one curious detail.

His Master did not seem to be angry around this girl. Far, far from that…

And so, as Ap’lek began his journey back to the  _ Night Buzzard, _ everything he had heard since the pronouncement of Snoke's assassination suddenly took on the haze of doubt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Up next... a kyber mine and an awkward nocturnal Force Bond reawakens old traumas for both of our Star Crossed Idiots.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyber crystals, emotional catharsis, and Mara ponders what to do with her new knowledge. Meanwhile the Force indulges in a fanfic writer's favourite trope, and reawakens some old trauma for both of our Star Crossed Idiots™.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few days later than I promised, but I have finally cleared the hurdle of Chapter 17. This final scene in particular has tormented me for several months, and the relief I feel at it being complete at long last is overwhelming. Special thanks again to my friend Rey-Lo, and the other writers over at The Workshop for their support and encouragement when it came to writing this chapter.
> 
> Content warning - this chapter contains two characters discussing sexual assault (nothing graphic, merely something Rey had witnessed as a child). 
> 
> Thank you for reading.

Thinking back, Rey cannot remember where she first heard of them, but since she was child, she had been fascinated with nebulae. She doubts that the so-called  _ guardians  _ (even that word tastes of ashes, but it hurts less than calling them her _parents_ ) who traded her to Plutt for a few measly credits would have told her bedtimes stories. 

Colour had been scarce on Jakku - just the coarse yellow of the sand and the unforgiving blackness of the night sky. The idea of a cloud of swirling colours, powerful and untameable, had taken root in her imagination. She dreamt of piloting a ship through one, seeing the hues dance before her eyes.

After several hours clamouring over rough terrain, her muscles throbbing, Rey's first impression as she stares into the mouth of the kyber cave is that she has stumbled into the heart of a nebula. Light of every hue dances across the walls; and the song of the crystals has grown loud enough to drown out the whipping of the wind against the mountainside.

On the  _ Jade's Fire _ , that melody had been a comfort to Rey. Now, however, it only serves to remind her of the shattered crystal back on Ajan Kloss, and the chasm in her heart.

Why does she allow Ben to affect her so, to burrow under her skin until rational thought is silenced? What cruel vagrancy of the Force continues to connect them, to taunt them with each other knowing that the chasm between them is unbridgeable? 

_ "You want an Empress, Ben. I can’t be that.” _

_ “And you want a penitent light side warrior. That isn’t me.” _

The enthusiasm she had felt since the moment Mara suggested this trip is now muted. Rey feels  _ tired.  _ Vacillating between anger and grief every time her Force bond with Ben opens is exhausting.

A hand brushes Rey's shoulder. Though Mara's face is hidden behind her own goggles and scarf, her Force signature winds around Rey like a caress. 

"Shall we?" Mara murmurs; the wonder in her voice undisguised.

Rey nods, and together they step into the cave.

The melody of the crystals has grown almost deafening. What had once seemed soothing now feels like a taunt. Their pulsing glow would be almost blinding if not for the googles. Yet, nonetheless there is an eerie beauty to this place.

Mara takes a few steps forward; her Force signature thrums with purpose. She lifts her hands; and the blazing lights of the cave grow dim without ever darkening; their song drops in volume. 

“That’s peculiar,” Mara mutters as she turns to Rey and tugs away her scarf and goggles. Her skin is painted in a pale purple glow, and the light seems to capture every grey hair in her auburn mane. There is something almost haunting in her appearance.

“What is?” Rey asks as she removes her own gear.

Mara frowns. “I’ve never known a kyber cave to be this…  _ active _ , before. Can you sense a vergence here?

Rey closes her eyes, feels the Force flow through her. “No,” she says after a few moments. “But what else would make the crystals do this?”

“I have my suspicions…” 

The way that Mara’s eyes narrow and linger on Rey sends a frisson of nervousness down her spine. But after a few minutes, with no answer forthcoming, and her mentor staring at her with a perplexed and almost wary look, Rey swallows. “Do I just pick any crystal? How do I know if it’s a decent one?”

Mara starts, before her lips tug into a sardonic smile. “There are no good or bad crystals, Rey. Just those that are more attuned to you than others.” She steps forward towards a vein of crystals protruding from the cave wall: their glow seems to brighten at her approach, but without the pulsing intensity of earlier. She crooks a finger, and Rey hesitantly joins her.

The glow only grows more powerful as Rey stands before the cluster.

“Touch them,” Mara murmurs. Her face is mask-like, but a strange curiosity sparkles in her gaze. 

The shards emit a luminous purple glow as Rey reaches out with quivering fingers, their brightness pulsing like a heartbeat. And instead of cold mineral, they feel warm as flesh beneath her hands.

That whispering melody now evolves, and Rey swears she can hear words in some ancient tongue. The voice is soft; although she cannot decipher the words, the tension coiled within her seems to melt. 

"They're talking to me," Rey says in an awestruck whisper. The hints of a smile play on her lips. For the first time since landing on Lah'mu, she feels at peace. 

"Can you understand them?"

She shakes her head. 

Mara clicks her tongue. "Then none of these crystals are meant for you." Her eyes grow wistful once more. "Mine… knew me - my name, who I was…" her voice grows thick, "What I had  _ done _ , and what I wanted to do." Her eyes glisten, and she tears her gaze from Rey's to dab at them with her sleeve. "Sorry, I had forgotten how… emotive these places could be."

That Rey well understood, and held her hand out to Mara as if to offer some comfort. "You don't need to come if you don't want to. This isn't even the worst cave I've been in recently," she deadpans, even as her skin chills at the memory of that eerie mirror cave on Ahch To… 

"No, I may be an elderly woman," Mara retorts, "But I think I can manage this. Besides," her tone grows solemn, "There's something… cathartic, I suppose, about being here. The key to seeming unflappable is to have carefully scheduled breakdowns in private."

The levity Mara was clearly aiming for fails to come across. Especially when Rey remembers the sight of her mentor, shaken and covered in so much blood as they had fled Coruscant barely a day ago…

But either she does not sense her pupil's doubt, or simply elects to ignore it, for Mara primly marches on ahead. "Come on, Rey," she calls over her shoulder, "Time to put those scavenger instincts to the test and find you the perfect crystal."

Rey snorts. Picking at the corpses of Imperial Star Destroyers like a carrion eater for scrap could hardly have prepared her for a kyber crystal hunt on a volcanic planet. But she calls upon her intuition - bolstered by a touch of the Force - and looks around the cave. The words of the vein have faded, and all remains is that soft melody once more.

_ Where are you?  _ She calls out

A single note of the melody begins to grow in volume; it brushes against her Force signature as if in greeting. 

_ Hello, _ Rey whispers with her mind; like trying to charm a frightened skittermouse when they ventured into her AT-AT to escape the steely, hungry eyes of the ripper-raptors. The rodents were vermin, and a threat to her food supply especially in the lean times, but she would not chase them out to their doom.

They all left, eventually. Nothing stayed on Jakku, except Rey herself.

She buries the memory of that place. The Jedi texts had spoken of letting go of anger. Whilst she doubts she could ever embrace that approach - and Mara would definitely not recommend as such, given her skepticism towards much of the Jedi doctrine - clinging to ancient hurts and scars isn't how she wants to meet  _ her _ kyber crystal.

_ Hers. _ Not borrowed or scavenged or stolen; this crystal, this lightsaber would only ever be hers. Made with the labours of her hands and the sweat of her brow.  _ Hers and hers alone. _ Perhaps the first possession that ever truly was…

So she empties her mind; focuses on that single note, and lets it guide her steps. Past dozens of glimmering clusters she walks as they croon to her in that ancient tongue. But she ignores those voices - they do not belong to the crystal calling to her.

Perhaps twenty minutes elapse before she finds the source of the sound; this particular vein erupts with colour and light at her approach.

_ Rey, daughter of Jakku… _ it murmurs into her mind,  _ You shoulder the weight of the galaxy upon you. Such a heavy burden on so young… Your soul is torn asunder, your heart in turmoil. _

Hearing her situation, spoken some frankly when she has never discussed it with  _ anyone  _ \- not even with Ben himself - lands like a physical blow, snatching the air from her lungs

_ Secrets can become poison, daughter of Jakku… They slowly corrode at you until you are hollow inside. You should not fear to share this one, not with one who would truly understand… _

Rey huffs a laugh, incredulous. She suspects that, if she even tried to speak on the topic, her tongue would refuse to cooperate. The lies, the secrecy has become so ingrained that her body would sooner protest than admit the truth. 

_ Ben Solo and I are bound in the Force. _

_ Despite everything, I care for him. _

_ I might love him… _

Hot tears sting at her eyes, almost burning against the coldness of her cheeks. 

Rey reaches out, her fingers seeking the crystal that calls to her, that speaks the secrets her heart refuses to share…

But amidst the glimmering shards whose light beats in tune with her pulse, finds not a single crystal drawing her in.

She finds  _ two. _

Or rather, one large, silvery crystal which splits at its roots into two smaller shards. They gleam with a lilac glow. When she touches them, a delicious warmth fills her body, and their flicker changes cadence until it beats in time with her own heart.

But a strange uncertainty tugs at her, a disquiet that seems to hover like a storm cloud. These two crystals are linked, almost as if they were one… how can she seperate them? The longer she spends on Lah'mu, the more Rey believes Mara's assertion that these crystals are sentient. But more than that, they have emotions…

Splitting this crystal pair, she knows deep in her heart, would be no different than the act of  _ bleeding  _ a kyber crystal, mortally wounding and corrupting it. 

"A crystal dyad."

Mara's voice, filled with wonder, pierces Rey's reverie. She starts, having not even noticed her monitor's approach. "Sorry?"

A smile tugs at Mara's lips. "I've read about these… never truly seen them before, though. Your crystal," she gestures vaguely over the vein within which that conjoined crystal rests, "Or crystals, I should say. Two that are one. They're called a dyad."

"So, they're… bonded?" 

Mara nods. 

"Oh…" Uncertainty fills Rey's features. "Then perhaps I should leave them, as I can't use both, and it feels… wrong… to part them."

"Hmmm, that's one way of looking at it," Mara hums. "Before you ever held a lightsaber, Rey, how did you defend yourself? I can't imagine Jakku was a terribly safe and kind place to a child alone in the galaxy."

The hurt Rey tried to bury now fights to break forth. She attempts to keep her voice dispassionate as she answers. "I used my staff." And, like a flash of lightning, Mara's insinuation strikes her. "You can do that?"

"Not all lightsabers are the same, Rey," she says confidently. "The weapon is as unique as the wielder. Saberstaffs were rare - but not unheard of; it would take two crystals to build, but luckily," and again she waves her hand over the kyber dyad flickering more frantically as Rey's heart beats an excited tattoo, "We have the perfect pair here, for your perfect weapon." 

When she goes to remove them from their vein, the crystals offer no resistance, coming away easily in Rey's hands. As she wraps them gingerly in a scrap of cloth and tucks them into the pocket of her borrowed coat, she wonders if perhaps the Force has given her two crystals for another reason.

Mara places a gloved hand on Rey’s covered bicep; the scar beneath seems to throb. Her mentor swallows reflexively - her lips part as if to speak, as if some great words of importance linger upon her tongue. But Mara then shakes her head, and her lips twist into a smile that does not meet her eyes. “Let’s get back to the ship,” she says. “I don’t know about you, but I am  _ ravenous.” _

* * *

Mara flips in bed, her mind still bubbling with thoughts even when her weary body demands rest. Even five years ago, she would have shrugged off the exertion of today's hike; but age seems to be creeping upon her. Her right knee had been particularly bothersome, and she had to concede to rubbing bacta gel on it to soothe the ache. 

She supposes it's a privilege to live long enough to complain about arthritis.

In the kyber cave, over dinner, and even before they retreated to their respective quarters to sleep, she had almost confronted Rey a dozen times. A dozen more she had contemplated skimming her mind for answers - the girl's emotions were in turmoil, and her defenses would be gossamer thin. 

A lifetime ago, Mara would have thought nothing of obtaining information in this way, even from an ally. But now… her stomach churned with disgust. She would not violate Rey's mind, no matter how burning her need for answers…

Since meeting her, something had seemed off with Rey. A reticence that Mara had initially attributed to the girl's hard life as a scavenger and her lifelong isolation. Never trusting anyone, never giving much of herself away.

But it was clear that Rey was in fact concealing the most explosive secret in the galaxy…

Mara groans. 

Ben Solo… knowing what that gentle, bookish boy had become felt like a vibroblade twisting in her gut. But it had always been like the knowledge of a star's surface being hot. It was one thing to know it, quite another to experience it…

Again, she replayed the interaction in her mind. Even from afar, their Force signatures radiated affection. A tender caress, soft words - and Force, what she wouldn't give to have heard exactly what her pupil and her errant nephew had to say to one another… 

Nephew. The word stung in her thoughts. She had never truly been his Aunt - whilst she and Luke had flirted with the concept of marriage (once she had stopped trying to assassinate him, she thinks with a wry chuckle), their relationship had grown sour, punctuated with too many arguments and not enough tenderness. Of course, his Skywalker blood made him headstrong and more than a touch arrogant, but Mara had learned the art of biding one's time at the Emperor's knee. She thought she could tame him.

It wouldn’t be the first (nor even the final) time she had been wrong in her life. But even twenty years later, it still stung the most.

She chides herself. Dwelling on historical regrets would only drive her to madness - and certainly not offer an answer to her current predicament.

Though she had tried to shed the mantle of the Emperor’s Hand, as a snake might shed its skin, some habits are too deeply ingrained. The moral grey, whilst it might upset and frustrate Leia, suited Mara. her mind would always pluck at the darkest scenario, always wary for threats and the like. And this part, its voice pounding in her ears, and despite the affection blooming for the girl, she finds herself questioning Rey’s motives.

Was the girl a spy in the employ of the First Order? No - she terminates that line of thought almost immediately. Her Force signature is unabashedly honest, and she is dreadful at deceit and concealment. Had she fallen under Snoke's thrall as had Ben Solo? Again, a ludicrous concept for the same reason.

How was he projecting himself across the galaxy? Luke had done so, and the effort had  _ killed _ him. 

A dull throb grows at Mara's temple. She knows that tossing and turning will not yield any answers to her quandary. Only speaking to Rey will.

Sleep comes uneasily.

* * *

Rey stirs in bed, so comfortable, so deliciously warm, the thrum of the engines like a lullaby. The ache in her limbs from their trek on Lah'mu has dissipated, and all she feels is a drowsy contentment. Even the doubt and disquiet of the last days has washed away, bathed in the song of her new kyber crystals.

Warm air, like the desert breeze, ruffles the hairs at her temple. She feels a heavy weight settle over her waist, and burrows closer to the heat. A contented murmur rumbles in her chest. She turns onto her back and stretches. 

Only for her elbow to collide with something. 

Something hard.

Something which  _ groans _ .

Even before her eyes open, Rey calls for Mara's lightsaber, and ignites it.

In the purple haze, she finds herself staring into the bleary-eyed, frozen face of the Supreme Leader.

The half-naked (only half, she hopes) Supreme Leader - in her bed.

The Supreme Leader, staring at her, his body trembling with remembered terror. 

This is not the first time Ben has awoken to the glare of a lightsaber as he lay in bed, she remembers, and hurriedly darkens the blade. Even still, his paralysis is slow to shift. He looks... vulnerable. So very different from the harsh figure of earlier. His face is puffy and creased from sleep. Already, a bruise is beginning to bloom on his cheek. 

After a moment, with only their harsh breathing to punctuate the silence, he blinks. A hand lifts to his face, and he rubs at the spot where her elbow had landed.  They stare at each other; dumbfounded; before it strikes Rey that she is clad only in a thin sleep shirt, and that her nipples are puckering in the coolness of the room. She tugs the bedsheet to her chin and back away a few inches.

"I'm sorry," she says. “Are you hurt?”

“Barely,” Ben replies in a sleep-roughed voice, his expression oddly reticent…

Her fingers twitch, and she reaches out as if to brush the mark she has made; but her hand stills in mid-air. A strange trepidation pools in her gut. She remembers the breeze against her brow, the warm weight at her waist… And her muscles have withdrawn before her brain has fully awakened.

“Ben…” she says, her voice suddenly tight. "What… what were you doing?"

At his blush and inability to meet her eyes, he has already answered. “I think I was…  _ holding _ … you.” His voice sounds so small, so bashful, that Rey can scarcely reconcile it with the screaming madman in the throne room, or the man discussing his father’s murder with such cold detachment.

She looks away, only for her eyes to fall upon his bare chest, as flushed as his face. Now her own skin grows hot - yes, from the memory of her flustered reaction the last time she had seen him thus - but also from the awakening  _ desire _ currently filling her...

Rey has long given up fighting the idea that she might be  _ attracted _ to Ben Solo. The version of him who haunts her dreams has done far more intimate things to her body; nocturnal spooning is positively chaste in comparison. But it is one thing to fantasise about an idealised version of the man she has complex feelings for. Quite another for him to actually embrace her as she sleeps unaware.

A voice from her memory intrudes - one of the older scavengers from Niima Outpost, with a weary, leathered face and gnarled hands, whispering into her ear, " _ Stay close to the women, dearie. Some of the men can't be trusted around here. A sleeping female - even a little girl - is practically an invitation to them." _

Then, more memories burst to the front of her mind.  _ His  _ face -  _ Kylo Ren's _ face - with that sinister, arrogant smirk that had chilled her to the marrow on Starkiller, even as she snarled and struggled against her restraints. 

_ “You know I can take whatever I want…” _

With those words echoing into the silence, Rey’s pulse spikes, and her gaze snaps back to his. 

Ben has the grace to look abashed. His knees flex upwards and rests his elbows on them. A hand runs through his hair, mussed from sleep, and he swallows. "Rey…"

"You might be used to having whatever woman you want in your bed," she hisses, hating the bite of  _ jealousy  _ in her tone, "But I am not yours."

He huffs an incredulous laugh. "What- Why would you think…?" He reaches out as if to touch her face as he had during their last Force bond - but she recoils as if from a serpent with bared fangs.

Hurt flashes over Ben's face; he does not even try to mask it with anger. But she wants his anger, his rage, to allow it to become a mirror to the anger burning within her.

"You think this bond gives you the right to invade my life, to do what you want with me?" 

An exasperated sigh escapes him, and his brows knit together. "I don't understand-"

"I am  _ not _ yours, Ben Solo."

"Oh, that I know," he retorts, but sadness tinges his words. She scoffs, but before she can form an angry (and possibly expletive-laden) rebuttal in her best Shyriiwook, he adds, "Even though we both want it. Want  _ each other. _ "

Rey curls closer into herself, even as her body remembers the warmth of his embrace, her nerves almost  _ whining _ from the loss of it.

"And of course, you can  _ ‘take whatever you want _ !’" She snaps. Those words, fired back at him, strike like a physical blow. She rips her gaze from his, lest his hurt act as a salve her righteous fury. "I was a fool to believe you would be any different from the rest of them." 

The words leave her mouth before she can stop them. His Force signature suddenly radiates horror and, yes, the rage she has needed to fuel her own spite. 

But when Ben speaks, his voice is oddly controlled, even as she can feel his tension in her own gut. “Who… Rey, who has…  _ hurt _ you?” His body thumbs with rage, like a hyperdrive on the verge of overheating and causing a cataclysm. 

Bile burns in her throat. Her tongue refuses to speak, to give voice to old ghosts, but there is no need. Their minds, their Force signatures, are too deeply entangled and concealment of any kind would be impossible. Like they had in the Archives, memories spurt forth like water from a damn. 

_ A woman yelps, but her cries are drowned out  _ _ by cackles of male laughter. There are sounds of a scuffle, of slapping and the loud rip of torn fabric. Rey curls deeper into herself in the hidden nook, dust and cobwebs tickling her nose.  _ **_Please don’t sneeze,_ ** _ her voice echoes into the darkness. _

_ Her heart rate quickens - surely even among the din, they must be able to hear it. Her eyes sting, and she tastes the burn of acid in her throat. The woman’s cries grow louder, and morph into frantic begging.  _

_ Something thrums within her - raw and powerful - and she squeezes her eyes closed.  _

_ Suddenly, there is the crackle of fire, and the woman’s cries abate - replaced by the anguished roars in a deep male voice, and the sounds of panic from the crowd. The stench of burnt hair and flesh fills her lungs. _

_ It is dawn before Rey feels safe enough to emerge. _

As the vision recedes, Ben’s Force signature slams against Rey, positively incandescent with rage. Not on Starkiller, not in the throne room, not even as he battled a mirage of his fallen mentor on Crait, has she tasted such raw and unfiltered wrath from him.

The lightsaber in her lap vibrates. Instinctively, she opens her palm and it flies into her grasp. But this time, she does not activate the blade. 

This white-hot fury, like a star on the verge of turning supernova, is not aimed at her. The same way she had lashed out at Skywalker to defend Ben, he is now filled with righteous anger on  _ her  _ behalf. It is one thing to knock an old man to the mud with her staff; but Ben has a far more destructive arsenal at his command…

Their thoughts merge. His jaw is clenched, and his knuckles bone white. 

“Give me one reason,” he says, his jaw clenched so tight the words can barely escape, “Why I shouldn’t take my entire fleet and bombard that planet until nothing remains but stardust?”

“Haven’t you spilled enough blood on Jakku already?” Rey barks. The Force practically crackles 

“Scum like that don’t deserve to live,” Ben retorts; his muscles tense, as if he is on verge of leaping out of bed to command his forces into battle, and only the most flimsy of restraints are preventing him. "Men like that are rabid animals - they should be put down as such!"

“I will not allow you to commit a massacre in my name!”

_ That _ seems to penetrate the tempest of his rage. He rubs a hand against his face; a thin line of stubble circles his jaw. 

Her own fury seems to have burned out; but her emotions - and his - are so entwined, and anger so near to the surface that it will not much to rekindle them.

"Yesterday, you told me that you would be different from Snoke," Rey says, placing Mara's lightsaber back in her lap. Despite the residual fury in Ben's gaze, he regards the weapon warily before his eyes snap back to hers. "And now you're threatening to destroy an entire planet on whim." Tears cloud her vision; she blinks, and a few are knocked loose. 

He sniffs, his own eyes suspiciously gleaming in the dim light of her quarters. "Because Snoke was a cruel sadist. He destroyed the Hosian system to eliminate any forces that might actually have the power to challenge him and the First Order." His voice grows thick. "I hate the idea of you suffering; of what could have happened to you on that hellish junkyard planet."

"Plutt never touched me," Rey says, rubbing at her eyes with the corner of the blanket. Her nose is running now, and she sniffs loudly. "None of them did. As soon as I was old enough to attract that sort of attention, I got out. Found my AT-AT and only returned to Niima to trade for portions or water. A few times one or two of them tried…" Nausea fills her stomach, her emotions on the verge of unspooling. Anger had been cathartic - and, when it came to Ben Solo, a far safer sentiment than whatever perplexing feelings he seemed to awaken in her. "But none of them was brave enough to try a second time." 

An image slips from her mind to him - a scrawny scavenger whacking a would-be assailant in the groin with her staff and barking curses at him in the filthiest Huttese she knew. Her eyes were feral, and the handsy stranger had retreated with a yelp and a few expletives of his own.

Ben gives a chuckle; a sinister sound that chills her. His expression is sombre. "I suppose I got off lightly with an elbow to the face," he says.

Rey's thoughts snap back to the realisation that she had awoken to his arm around her.

When Ben speaks, his words are barely louder than a breath. "I would never hurt you, Rey. Especially not -  _ that -  _ way." She feels an echo of his nausea in her own gut. But she buries her emotions, unable to face the prospect of yet another argument with him. Weariness runs bone deep.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hold you. That was all it was, I swear." His words are so painfully earnest. "I was asleep. But if I made you feel uncomfortable, I apologise." He ran a hand through his hair. "And I swear, this was the only time."

"The… only… time?" Rey repeats slowly, and watches his eyes widen. If she weren't on the precipice of an outburst, she might find his expression  _ comical. _

"Kriff…" Ben flushes scarlet again. "Those weeks when you thought the Force bond was dead?" Rey nods, and he bites his lip. "Well… a few times it opened when you were asleep. I woke up with you in my bed." Sensing a spike in her annoyance, he raises a placating hand. "Nothing happened, I swear! Tonight was an exception, and I apologise."

"Except for the time you tried to crawl into bed with me, you mean?"

A frown fills his lips. "You weren't asleep, were you?" 

Rey huffs a savage chuckle. "No, Ben, I was not."

Ben swings his legs out of her - no,  _ his _ \- bed. Mercifully he has a pair of loose trousers on, which sit far, far lower on his hips than those he had worn during  _ that _ particular Force bond. He begins to pace, tugging at his hair. His skin is almost translucent in the blue haze of hyperspace. Rey fixes her gaze on his face, with its confused and hurt expression. 

After a few minutes, he sighs heavily and looks at her with such pain and longing that it seems to resonate in every crack in her soul. 

She watches as he fumbles in what must be his wardrobe. A loose shirt materialises in his hand, and he tugs it over his head. His hair - still mussed from sleep and the attentions of his fingers during their argument - sticks out every which way. Rey itches to touch it, to know if it is really as lush and silky as she has imagined.

But she shutters that thought, knowing how raw their emotions are and how easily he could pick up on it.

Amidst her distraction, Ben has returned to the bed. The mattress dips under his weight. He sits atop the sheets, his long limbs folded awkwardly beneath him. She mirrors his pose, setting Mara's lightsaber to one side.

He sighs again, this time a quiet puff as though he has no more emotion left to expend. 

"Could you use that saber against me?" he asks. "Use it to maim me again, use it to kill me?"

And with that, their precarious shielding crumble...

_ A flash of red - mingled horror and grief - a father's regret and love manifest in a single caress… _

_ Another blade - purple - piercing his chest. A snarling and smug Rey driving it deeper, twisting; and then waves of horror crashing against her. _

When the vision recedes, both of their faces are damp with tears.

"No more than I deserve, I suppose," Ben says hoarsely. "Maybe I'm not that different from Snoke after all."

She shakes her head, and more tears tremble on her eyelashes. "You  _ are _ different. Maybe not…" she hesitates, swallows. "Maybe not as different as I want you to be-" he scoffs, but there's a fondness in the sound, "But I don't think tyranny suits you."

His laugh is tinged with bitterness. "Me neither. I'm trying to be better."

"I know."

His eyes drift downward; Rey realises that the bedclothes she had been using to shield her modesty have long since fallen away. She flushes, ready to admonish him for a wandering gaze,  only to realise that something other than her cleavage has captured his attention. His gaze fixes on the scar to her right arm. With fingers that visibly tremble, he reaches out slowly enough that she might stop him.

Instead, Rey nods her consent. An explosive shiver fills her at the touch of his fingers against the scar. 

"Rey?" He murmurs, uncertain. His hand withdraws; but she covers it with her own.

There's something so chaste yet so intimate about this touch. She wants those hands on her, more than she would ever admit even to herself. She wants to endure slow, sensuous touches as he learns her body. She wants to touch him in return, learn his scars and lavish them with the same tenderness.

"That scar… It's from the fight with Snoke's Praetorian guard, isn't it?" 

Rey nods.

Ben's mouth puckers into a grimace. "Seeing you cornered, hearing your cry when that guard wounded you… I don't think I've ever been so afraid in my life." He shakes his head, a few hairs landing in his eye line. Before she can stop the motion, her fingers reach up to brush them away.

She licks her cracked lips, her breath sour from sleep, and watches his eyes track the motion.

The shrill wail of an alarm pierces their reverie. Rey starts and looks around dumbly before recognising that the sound has originated on Ben's side of the bond, nor hers. 

The bed creaks as he stands with a grumble; something so distinctly  _ Han _ in his manner that Rey feels her pulse stop for but a moment. He walks over and punches a code into some unseen wall panel.

"What is it now, Hux?" He barks. 

Rey frowns. How quickly he snaps back into Supreme Leader… The dizzying duality of Ben Solo.

Whatever conversation is taking place between him and this Hux, Rey is only privy to Ben's half. However, she senses a spike of panic in the bond, and his eyes fill with something akin to terror as his gaze flickers between her and the wall.

"I did not authorise you to waste our resources on the basis of hearsay and rumour. Send a platoon of Stormtroopers to investigate if you must - not a damned Star-Destroyer!" 

The flesh beneath her scar, which had sang beneath this touch, now prickles with the same dread coursing through her veins like poison. Absently, she plucks at the blankets. He continues to argue with the voice for several more minutes.

Hux - that was the name he had used. The General who sought to put a bounty on her head. The same one who had come within a hair's breadth of executing Finn and Rose on  _ The Supremacy _ … Rey shudders. Though she has never met the man, he strikes her as being at best belligerent, and at worst profoundly dangerous.

A smashing sound and a curse pull Rey from her musings. She watches Ben rub his knuckle - he must have punched the wall, she surmised- before he practically flies across the room to grip her shoulders. 

"Where are you, Rey?" He says, his voice low but with an undercurrent of panic reflected in his wild eyes.

"I thought I made it clear that I would never tell you that," she retorts. But his Force signature is awash with fear so profound he is almost drowning with it. Unconsciously she draws the blanket closer around herself. "We're on the opposite sides of a  _ war _ , Ben." 

A spike of anger punctures his fear. "I'm not asking because I want to attack you," he says in a tight voice. "I want to protect you, Rey." He runs a hand through his hair, hard enough that a few stray hairs come away in his fingers. "Right now, there's a Star Destroyer headed for Axxila - please tell me you're not on the planet.  _ Please. _ "

The furrow in her brow is all the confirmation he needs; his body practically sags with relief and she finds herself pulled into his arms, hot tears scalding her neck. Her arms hesitate before snaking around his body. His muscles are hard as durasteel beneath her hands. 

The bond practically sings with their contact. But a thought pricks at the edge of her consciousness, and she slowly extricates herself from Ben's embrace. Gooseflesh rises on her skin in protest.

"Why did you think we were on Axxila?" Rey asks slowly.

His mouth contorts into that grimace once more. "Because a Correllian YT-class freighter made planetfall there a few hours ago." The cold, clinical way he speaks is in stark contrast to the guilt and rage rumbling in his heart. Loathe the ship though he may, the essence of Ben Solo is woven into the very fabric of the  _ Falcon.  _ "Seems a perfect spot for that junk heap freighter - that planet is crawling with spice-smugglers and reprobates. Perhaps the _Steadfast_ will perform an act of public service by blowing it to stardust."

"And who do you think is piloting the _Falcon_?" Rey asks quietly.

She only has to touch her mind to his. Instantly, the memory of giant furry arms and a trilling chortle bursts forth, followed by a peel of childish laughter. 

Ben jolts as though he has touched an exposed wire. Unconsciously, he reaches for his left side, the flesh beneath tingling with remembered pain from a bowcaster blast…

But before he can offer a rebuttal, an excuse, a response of any sort, the bond dissolves. 

Rey distangles herself from the bed sheets. Her bare feet slap against the cold floor as she runs to the cockpit. The blue of hyperspace is almost blinding.

She fumbles with the switches for a moment before the hyperspace relay activates. With trembling fingers she inputs the code Leia had shared with her. Naboo. Endor.  _ Ben. _

_ Ben… _

Every second is an eternity before the comm flickers to life, and a familiar voice trills it's greeting to her.

A hand against her mouth smothers the cry of pained relief. "Chewie," she rasps. "Where are you?"

< _ Hyperspace,> _ he says.  _ <Been on a supply run. Back at base in a few hours. Will you be there, Little One?> _

Rey shakes her head - then giggles, knowing he won't see the gesture. Fondness washes over her, envelopes her in its warmth. "Not yet - we're on our way back too."

_ <Race you _ ,> he says.  _ <Loser cleans out the nests in the galley _ .>

"You're on!" Her cheeks hurt from smiling even as disquietude gurgles underneath… 

The _Falcon_ and the Resistance may not be an Axxila - but there must be thousands (if not millions) who are. People awakening to the shadow of a First Order ship hovering in their atmosphere, the memory of Hosnian Prime still so raw in the galaxy’s mind… She pictures a frightened populace, huddled in their homes as white-clad Stormtroopers filled the streets and sinister officers barked their orders. 

And once he knew _she_ was safe, Ben apparently had no intentions of intervening to stop it.

Her thumb brushes the scar on her bicep. A lifetime scavenging has left her with scars aplenty - but this one is different. Not from the violence that wrought it, nor the memory of her pain. 

Because every time she looks at it, she remembers Ben. The moment they united in a common goal, fought together, fought  _ for _ each other, as that Force-damned vision showed her they would. An eternal brand upon her flesh of foolish hope and the agony of failure. Ben Solo is etched onto her in this scar as she is on the one she sliced onto his face. It mocks her.

When Chewie terminates their comm with the promise of seeing her tomorrow, Rey pads slowly back to her quarters. They are but a few hours from Ajan Kloss now, and she feels her path, her resolve, solidify.

The bed sheets carry only a ghost of his warmth. She could borrow in, bury herself in dreams and false hopes.

Instead, Rey finds the torn shirt from her time in the Archives. With a sigh, she tears strip of fabric from the damaged sleeve, and winds it around the scar.

Now, the only scar she carries from the  _ Supremacy  _ is the one on her heart, invisible to everyone but herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like "Force bond bed sharing". you like also like my one-shot Nocturnal Conclaves.
> 
> Next up... What's the craic back on Ajan Kloss? 
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What’s the craic back on Ajan Kloss? Poe mopes, Finn and Rose have a heart-to-heart, and maybe love is in the air for more than one couple?
> 
> Content warnings: Alcohol, trauma, nightmares, memories of parental death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> No Reylo this chapter I'm afraid (and possibly very little in the next chapter as well, depending on where the natural break point falls) - but we have a few others whose story lines have been neglected whilst these two pine and mope
> 
> Thank you again for reading, and once more, special thanks to my dear friend [Rey_Lo,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rey_Lo/pseuds/Rey_Lo) for reading over the chapter and giving me some pointers and advice, in addition to writing her own stories.

Another hoot erupts from the sabacc table as Wexley slams down his cards triumphantly. Rose tries to conceal her smile as Nien Nunb grumbles and slides his remaining credits over to the gloating pilot. It's a hollow victory, she thinks. There are no cantinas or markets within a dozen light years of Ajan Kloss in which to spend the spoils. Mess duties are a far more valuable commodity for gambling. 

She takes a slow sip of her drink, grimacing at the taste. General Leia's donated whiskey is but a memory. Kaydel, ever cheery and resourceful, had combed the jungle for more berries, and turned her hand to some brewing in an attempt to keep the Resistance supplied with some form of alcoholic refreshment. _Grog_ , she called the final product with a proud gleam in her eye. _Distilled piss_ , a few of the pilots muttered when she was safely out of earshot. But everyone still partook of the drink when it was passed around.

In the Outer Rim, you take what you can get and are grateful for it.

Rose sniffed the beverage before risking another mouthful. It tasted only marginally better than engine grease - not that she would ever tell Kaydel that to her face, of course. Whilst she valued her taste buds, she valued their burgeoning friendship more.

Finn makes a strangled sound when he sips from his own glass, and she feels his shudder. His hand is warm and soft at her back. “Are we definitely sure she isn’t trying to poison us?” He remarks lightly, angling his head towards Kaydel, who is at present chatting animatedly with Jannah at the opposite side of the mess tent. Her blonde head is thrown back in a laugh, and a smile teases the corner of Jannah's lips. 

It won’t last, Rose knows. Every night since her arrival, Jannah has awoken them all to her screams and whimpers whilst in the throes of a nightmare. Though they have known each other for only a few days, Rose knows Jannah to be a pillar of strength and bravery. Seeing her rendered so _broken_ by mere dreams was chilling. 

“Jannah has nightmares,” Rose says quietly, half-feeling like she is betraying some great confidence. She looks into Finn’s eyes, sorrowful and yet unsurprised. “Every night.” Her thumb slowly caresses his knuckle. I'm sorry, but I've never asked before… Do you have them too?”

Finn sighs, a sound as heavy as the galaxy. “Sometimes,” he admits. “I don’t sleep much - hard for nightmares to catch up with you if you’re wide awake.” His attempted smile comes closer to a grimace, and he pulls Rose closer, brushes his lips against her brow. She notes the weariness in his eyes and that faraway haunted look that never truly leaves him. “Although I spend most of the night ruminating, which is probably just as bad?”

“Ruminating on what?” 

There's little need to ask - she knows the answer with uncomfortable certainty. 

He shrugs, and braves another sip of the grog before tipping the contents of his mug to the ground. “That the Order are probably still hopping from system to system, slaughtering innocent people and hoovering up more kids like me and Jannah to join their ranks.” His voice is hard as flint. “And I can’t do anything about it. I’ve never felt so…”

“Powerless?”

“Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.” Roughly, he rubs a hand through his hair. “I keep trying to figure out how to do something about it…”

Rose watches as he chews his lip. It’s a familiar topic of conversation between them. Guilt constantly seems to whirl in his chest like desert winds - guilt for actions past, yes, but more so guilt that _he_ at least had broken free of his bondage and found purpose and meaning away from the First Order when so many others remain indentured.

That thought is slowly cording him inside. No matter what words of comfort and reassurance she tries to offer, it will not quiet the ache in his soul. Only action will.

They’ve talked about it often - how to use his status and myth to bring down the First Order from within. But, stuck on an Outer Rim jungle moon, options are limited. Any propaganda HoloVid they made would be rapidly blocked and debunked by the First Order. It would almost certainly never be seen by the men and women it was designed to inspire.

Honestly, Rose is beginning to think smuggling themselves back onto a First Order ship and physically inciting a rebellion is going to be the closest thing they have to a workable plan…

But the memory of how close they came to being executed, of Hux's sadistic smile, and the searing heat of the laser-axe but a hair's breadth from her face, causes her stomach to contort. She banishes that idea to the storeroom of her mind.

She must have shuddered, or betrayed herself in some other tangible way, for Finn tightens his grip on her waist. They lean closer, and share a languid kiss as much for pleasure as comfort. When their lips part, he leans his brow against hers in a shared sigh.

They are alive. For now, that is a victory enough.

Her reverie is shattered by another triumphant boast from Wexley. He raises a glass of alcohol to himself and knocks it back in a single gulp, his euphoria undimmed by the noxious taste.

"You know what? Whilst Wexley is a sore loser,” Finn whispers, his breath a pleasant tickle against Rose’s ear. “He’s an even more insufferable winner.” The alcohol that had barely touched Rose’s throat suddenly spurts out her nose in a snort. A few deftly applied slaps top her back terminate her coughing fit before Wexley can notice. “I’d like to see Poe wipe that smug grin off his face.”

That causes a frown to form on Rose’s mouth. Wexley had won every sabacc game for the last few nights… Which meant that it had been three days since Poe last played. Oh, he might miss the odd game when it coincided with his duties, but an absence of this length was uncharacteristic.

Swirling her drink around the cup before shoving it away in disgust, Rose searches their small group for any sign of the Captain, and finds him absent.

Since coming back from the Corellia mission - and his less-than-stellar landing sending him into a sulk - Poe had been behaving oddly. Several times, she has spotted him lurking around the hangar at odd times, his fingers glancing over the dented metalwork of his T-85 and leaving smudged fingerprints on a previously gleaming surface. Chewie had taken the _Falcon_ on a supply run just yesterday, and Poe hadn't volunteered to join or tried to wheedle his way into the cockpit.

Rose sighs. She tried to be kind, to think the best of others or at least offer them the benefit of the doubt. But her feelings regarding Dameron were uncomfortably complex. She had gone along with his madcap plan, and it had cost far too many Resistance lives when they had been captured. Those names she had written into her memory during the memorial service, with the bitter tang of guilt in her mouth.

But she also remembers that it was his heroic earlier stunt which had gotten Paige - and so many other pilots and gunners- killed. Every time she looks over at the sabacc table, her heart constricts with a conspicuous absence… Unconsciously, her fingers brush the Haysian smelt medallion around her neck, its other half now stardust on the opposite side of the Outer Rim.

Tears prick her eyes, but they do not fall. Quiet on the outside, an emotional tempest within - that was how Paige had once described her, in that way that only sisters can tease one another. 

Rose worries. Worries that one day she will forget the sound of Paige's laugh. The way she would bite her thumbnail when she was nervous. The smell of her hair, beneath all the sweat and engine grease. A hundred small quirks and gestures that were so distinctly _Paige_. 

She reaches for the grog again. At least she can blame the tears and the wet, blubbery sniffles on the alcohol.

* * *

Even in sleep, the sounds of the jungle permeate Kaydel’s dreams. Chirping insects, the scuffle of paws in the ground, the rustle of leaves and groaning of the trees. Hyperspace had always made her drowsy but, away from nature and its melodies, she could rarely sleep well. The jungle provided its own lullaby, more soothing than the hum of engines or the bustle of a metropolis. 

The close quarters of their tent have given her new noises as well. Rose's snuffles, Rey's snores and grunts, their nocturnal sounds almost soporific. Even with that little seed of fear growing within her heart, that no amount of bravado and courage and _hope_ can weed out, the sounds of _life_ have always helped her drift off.

But tonight, she snaps to awareness at the rustle of sheets and the first whimper from the bed opposite hers. 

Already Jannah has entangled herself in the bedclothes, fighting unseen restraints. A low sound, like the death mewl of a loth-cat escapes her. The sound pierces Kaydel's heart. She slips from her bed, and crawls towards Jannah's thrashing form.

The first night this had happened - the first night Jannah had spent on the base - Kaydel had burst from her own bed to soothe her, and had to dodge a flying fist as Jannah was seized by night terrors. 

Now, she is more cautious. "Jannah," she croons in a quiet floral voice, and reaches out with gentle fingers for her hand. "It's me, Kaydel. You're safe." 

But her soothing words and touches cannot alone quiet those agonised sounds from Jannah - the ones that tighten the roots of fear and pain in Kaydel’s heart. What horrors and guilt can be manifesting in dreams, bringing such torment to Jannah?

Of course, Kaydel can guess at the bare bones of it. She has been there as Jannah, in a sorrow-strained voice, offered the Resistance what piecemeal intelligence she could. Locations of the Stormtrooper training facilities, the systems the First Order was in the process of subjugating prior to her defection, and what little she knew of the _Steadfast's_ odious Allegiant General, Enric Pryde. 

Jannah had also shared the assignment numbers of the other Stormtroopers who had downed their weapons rather than massacre the innocent. Only then did her voice waver and her eyes take on a glassy glean. 

Even if she never knew their real names, she wanted them to be commemorated. It might not be some grand monument to bravery; but letters and numbers on a datapad were better than obscurity.

Jannah’s eyes snap open, wide and clouded with something akin to terror. Like a reflex, her hand had already reached beneath her pillow for a blaster before her gaze collides with Kaydel’s. Each breath is as louder as an explosion, and the blaster falls to the ground with a dull clatter.

Kaydel’s heart beats so loud, the whole base must hear it. A quivering hand reaches for Jannah’s bare shoulder to give it a reassuring squeeze. The skin is silky soft and so warm beneath her fingers… but almost immediately, Jannah withdraws.

“I’m sorry,” Jannah says, unable to even look at the woman trying to comfort her. “Maybe I should find somewhere else to sleep.”

“No.” Kaydel shakes her head vehemently, feeling her pulse settle again to a normal tempo. Her hand hangs numbly in the, fingers curling but hesitant to reach for Jannah again. “There’s no shame in nightmares. Do you want to… talk… about them?”

A plaintive sound escapes Jannah’s lips; her legs curl up and she buries her face between parted knees. “Not unless you want them too?” The words come out muffled, but the emotion behind them is so _raw_ it pangs in Kaydel’s chest. “I should have been stronger.” Jannah lifts her head marginally. Even in the gloom of their tent, tears visibly glisten on her cheeks. 

How badly Kaydel wants to brush them away...

 _Focus, woman!_ She scolds herself. Willing herself to forget the scorching warmth of Jannah’s skin is an effort. Instead, she clears her throat and, striving for a tone halfway between firm and comforting, says, “You were strong - so strong! - just to stay intact. That can’t have been easy. But all that is in the past. You’re with us; you’re safe.”

Jannah snorts, a wet, blubbery sound that comes out almost comical if it didn’t evoke such pathos. “Safe? None of us are safe. We might never be.”

Kaydel is barely aware of the sounds of Rose slipping out of their tent.

She hauls herself from the floor, brushing dirt from her loose trousers, before perching on the edge of the bed. “If I truly believed that, I wouldn’t be able to get up in the morning.” The words are earnest, and she reverently wishes that they resonate with Jannah as she listens. “I _have_ to believe in a better future. Hope is-”

“Like the sun,” Jannah finishes, and there is the merest upturn of her lips that threatens to turn into a smile. “Is that the official motto of the Resistance?"

Kaydel giggles, a sound which feels almost indecent, and shakes her head. A few loose hairs fall into her eyes. "It isn't, but I can petition General Leia on the matter first thing!" 

Some of the tension drains from Jannah's shoulders as she laughs, even as one hand remains fisted in the sheets. 

Tentatively enough that Jannah might pull away if the gesture is too bold, too much, Kaydel places a hand over hers. 

Jannah jolts, but turns her palm to interlace their fingers. "I'm sorry I'm a terrible bunk mate," she whispers.

"You don't snore half as loud as Rey, and you don't leave greasy overalls piled all over the tent like Rose," Kaydel says with a teasing lilt. "And I'm sure if you asked them, they'd be quick to extol some of my less virtuous qualities too. We're all imperfect - all a little broken too." She risks brushing a stray curl from Jannah's face, and is pleased when she doesn't recoil. 

Her eyes are beautiful, Kaydel thinks. Fathomless pools of obsidian in which she could happily drown. There is pain in them, but a fire too. Determination, bravery and resilience. Her fingers linger on Jannah's cheekbone - razor sharp yet soft as crushed velvet. 

With a blink, Kaydel stills her caress and withdraws her hand. Spots of colour paint her cheeks; she hopes the shadow-stained darkness is enough to conceal it. She fidgets with the sheets, her gut a swirling pool of nerves. 

Now, only the sounds of the jungle punctuate their awkward silence. 

Kaydel moves to stretch, but feels a warm palm upon her bare arm. She forces herself to meet Jannah's eyes, already flinching in preparation of the scold she must surely be due for her impropriety, but instead Jannah's gaze is soft and almost nervous, teeth worrying at her lower lip.

"Kaydel…" she clears her throat. "Can I… can I ask a favour? Please?"

Kaydel's answering nod is so quick, she marvels that her neck does not snap with the sheer force of it. "Of course!" She says in what was meant to be an airy tone, but comes out closer to a squeak. "Anything you need."

"Sometimes," Jannah says in a low voice that her companion has to strain to hear, "I get these - I don't know how to describe it - _flashes_ of memory. From, you know, _before_."

Before… Such a charged word. A word meant to encompass a loss of freedom, of innocence, of love and normalcy. Everything that Kaydel longs to give to Jannah once more.

 _Kriff_ … her heart quickens. Her childhood friends had always teased her. About how rapidly she would become infatuated with a pretty face and a sharp wit. About how easily she could give her heart away. And Kaydel had always vehemently refuted that claim, even as she pined and sighed and daydreamed over the objection of her affection.

And now, when the galaxy seems on the verge of sliding into irreversible darkness, all she can think about is how soft and delicious Jannah's lips would feel against her own… 

Those lips currently and shyly sharing a treasured memory, speaking a request. One that Kaydel is all too eager to acquiesce to.

Carefully, Jannah rolls onto her side. Kaydel slips beneath the upturned bed sheets to nestle in beside her, one arm draped loosely over her waist and her face buried in those sweet smelling dark curls of Jannah's hair. 

It's meant to be soothing; the mimic of a maternal embrace long denied to a woman whose childhood was snatched from her. No matter how the impassioned and traitorous direction of Kaydel's thoughts wished otherwise. 

But if it helped Jannah find solace in her dreams, she would hold her every night.

* * *

“Even at night, this place is sweltering,” Poe grouses as he meanders across the base. BB-8 rolls behind him, crunching twigs underfoot and sending more than a few nocturnal rodents scurrying away. The fabric of his thin shirt clings to his back with sweat. “Couldn’t have picked an ice planet? I hear Hoth’s nice this time of year.”

 _My databases tell me that Yavin IV is a jungle planet,_ the little astromech chirps. _Was its climate intolerable to you as a child, or are my files corrupt?_

“No,” he says, rubbing a sticky hand over the back of his neck and loosing a miserable chuckle. “Let’s just say I’ve lost the taste for hot places.” 

_Cooling unit damage is common in older droid models - you should seek a humanoid mechanic for a maintenance check,_ BB-8 tells him. _Did the doctor not notice it when you saw her the other day?_

The other day. The day that Poe Dameron’s world shattered. That single word which had divided his life in two. The Poe of before - the rebel fighter, the flawed hero seeking atonement, the hot-shot pilot - and the Poe of after. An eternity seemed to exist between the two men when in reality it took Doctor Kalonia but a second to utter the word.

_Bloodburn._

Though he had no destination in mind when he set out on his nocturnal walk, he is unsurprised to find himself back in the hangar. Aside from an overly curious zymod - one likely to end up in tomorrow night’s stew if it didn’t learn caution - the place was deserted. The lamplight is pale and sickly, but even still it pierces his eyes. The smell of oil and engine grease hangs thickly in the air. Six unblemished T-85 X-wings - well, five unblemished and one slightly dented - all stand in a row. The heat flooding his face now had little to do with his condition.

He wanders between them, fingers ghosting over cool durasteel. How many more flights does he have left in him, he wonders? That thought is its own peculiar torture. And, without flying, then who is Poe Dameron?

_Warm arms wrap themselves around a small boy, as a soothing, honey-toned voice patiently explains the purpose of every button and light on the control panel. He listens with rapt attention, memorising every detail. He tugs on the orange of his mother’s flight suit, and begs for more stories of her adventures in the cockpit. “When can I learn to fly, Mama?”_

_His mother laughs, a glittering, dulcet sound that etches itself into his memory. “Don’t worry Poe, I’ll teach you as soon as you’re tall enough to climb into the cockpit without my help.” Warm amber eyes meet his, sparkling with pride and unbridled love. She dips her head to pepper kisses on his brow. He squirms away from her lips with filial exasperation. She chuckles once more._

Tears glaze his vision.

Shara Bey had died before his eighth birthday - him still too short to clamber into the cockpit of her A-Wing, but the universe had decided he was plenty old enough to grow up without a mother. She had been in his thoughts at every moment - from the exhilaration of his first flight, to his induction into the New Republic Defence Fleet and every promotion earned through skill and hard work. Even as he had defected to the Resistance, he saw her approving smile. She had been a rebel pilot herself, after all, and had regaled him with tales and daring missions and heart stopping escapes. 

But now, when Poe closes his eyes, those warm eyes of hers are filled with doubt.

 _Different times, Mom,_ he thinks bitterly, tracing the dents and scratches of his ship. Each one feels like an affront. _Different enemy and different stakes._

“Captain Dameron?”

His hand stills over the battered panel. With a half-sigh, half-growl, he turns around.

Harter Kalonia lingers, in the entranceway to the hanger, silhouetted by starlight. Even in the gloom, he can see the cynical tilt to her lips that instantly makes him rankle.

Poe clears his throat. “Doctor.” His eyes flicker to BB-8, sitting a few feet away and tilting its head-part quizzically at him. “BeeBee, why don’t you head back to the tent? I’ll join you soon. And hey,” he says, pointing his finger, “Try to encourage Finn to get some sleep. He looked exhausted. Got it?”

 _Affirmative,_ the droid says, but Poe swears he can hear an undercurrent of _petulance_ in the chirps and beeps as BB-8 rolls away. It stops near Doctor Kalonia’s feet, and remarks, _His cooling unit is malfunctioning. I recommend a replacement,_ before trundling off towards the main area of the base.

Doctor Kalonia raises an eyebrow. “Since I don’t speak droid, care to translate?”

“Nothing important,” Poe tells her. 

“Well, then I’ll get straight to business, Captain. _You_ haven’t come back for a check-up,” she chides. “I believe that was one of the cornerstones of our little agreement.”

Poe tugs at the collar of his shirt. “I don’t need a daily physical, Doc. I’ve followed your orders to the letter. I’ve kept hydrated - not easy on this sauna of a moon, I hasten to add. I haven’t touched any alcohol-”

“Well, thank the stars for that,” Doctor Kalonia interjects dryly, arms folded across her chest. “I’m fully expecting my first case of blindness from whatever vile concoction Lieutenant Connix has brewed to present any day now.”

He snorts. “Trust me, I wouldn’t touch that stuff even if I were, you know-” _Healthy._ The word freezes on Poe’s tongue. He shakes his head, a few beads of perspiration falling into his eyes. “But that’s beside the point - I’ve cut my caf consumption, and I’m even exercising more. I’ve held up my end of the bargain. I didn’t beg to go on the last supply run - I should have, as I probably could’ve sourced some Haidera serum myself rather than waiting on you to magic some out of thin air,” his voice is rising in volume, but Doctor Kalonia continues to stare at him impassively. “What else do you want me to do?”

A curious smile plays on her lips. “Tell me, Dameron,” she says, leaning against the hull of one of the X-Wings, the words "New Republic Defence Fleet" still emblazoned on its blue paintwork, “Why do you think that I want you to come and see me regularly?"

"Because you don't trust me," he says flatly. _You and the rest of the base._

To his surprise, she shakes her head. "I'm afraid that I have to trust you, Poe. Rather vital part of the doctor-patient relationship, you know." He opens his mouth as if to interrupt, but she holds up a placating hand. "I want to see you regularly because I know this diagnosis is taking a phenomenal psychological toll on you. Why else would you be lurking around the hangar when everyone else is abed? And I _know_ that you won't talk to anyone else about it - not even that little droid, who clearly thinks the world of you. Poe," she steps close and places a hand on his shoulder. "You've always had this predilection for being the hero, the first one in the air and the last one to return to base. And now, you have to come to terms with the fact that such a way of life isn't possible for you anymore. Bottling this up is as dangerous to your wellbeing as flying right now. You're allowed to feel angry, and _stars_ , you're allowed to _grieve."_

Even as she speaks, he continues to grimace. She smells of bacta, and the scent burns in his nostrils.

"Easy for you to say, Doc," he retorts.

It's a subtle thing - the merest twitch of a muscle in her jaw - but Poe sees that he has angered her. "Petulance doesn't sit well on you, Dameron. If you won't listen to me as your physician," she says without losing that evenness to her tone, "Then might I remind you that I am also your superior officer? You had respect for rank… Once."

A punch in the gut would have been a softer blow. The jut of her chin, the steely determination in her eyes is so eerily reminiscent of another… 

When he closes his eyes, it is not only his mother's disappointed gaze which pierces him.

He can picture the looks of betrayal on Amilyn Holdo’s face, as if she were standing before him now. Again, he tastes that corrosive sting of _guilt._

Poe's lips part, but he is spared speaking by a familiar voice filling in the hangar.

"Poe?"

His gaze snaps to the entrance, and to the curious eyes of Rose Tico. One of her fists is curled by her side, and Poe suspects that she still carries an electro-shock prod to deter would-be deserters. His body gives an involuntary twitch.

"BeeBee told me that I'd find you here- Oh!" Her eyes widen when she spots the doctor as well. "I didn't expect… BeeBee didn't mention…" she trails off.

"Hello, Rose," Doctor Kalonia says without so much as flinching. "Your arrival is most timely - I had rather begun to fear for my virtue with Captain Dameron here." She gives him a playful shove, and the heat in his face has _nothing_ to do with bloodburn anymore…

Rose's mouth hangs agape, and she stumbles through a farewell as the doctor slips out into the night with an airy chuckle. But, she lingers in the doorway for but a second and shoots Poe a meaningful look.

Even so, his breaths come easier once she is gone.

He clears his throat, as Rose fixes him with a narrow glare.

"You know," she says in a low voice, "If I caught anyone else skulking around here after hours, I'd be accusing them of trying to run away." 

"I'm not planning on deserting, Rose."

She clicks her tongue to the roof of her mouth. "Like I said, if it were anyone but you…" She shakes her head. "In this case, I gotta admit that I'm more worried about you 'borrowing' an X-Wing and blasting off on some stupidly heroic, death-or-glory mission. You do have this pathological need to be a hero, Dameron."

The words land like a slap. Whether she realises it or not, her fingers are clutching that pendant around her neck. 

In their days on D'Qar, he and Rose had seldom crossed paths. He knew her only as Paige's reserved sister, less gregarious and chatty than the pretty gunner. But, looking into Rose's eyes, he sees that same tenacity that had always blazed in Paige's eyes. There is something else there too. Something dangerously perceptive.

It feels uncomfortably like she has him laid bare, down to his very marrow.

"I'm not going to do anything stupid, Rose. Believe me," he says morosely. "I've learned my painful lesson."

"I know." Her voice is like ice. "Then what _are_ you doing here, Poe?" 

He runs a hand through sweat-slicked hair. "Nothing Rose. Just... contemplating, that's all."

She purses her lips. "It was _one_ bad landing," she says, half-kindly, half-exasperated. "Look, I know Wexley was a bit of an arrogant nerf-herder about the whole thing, but haunting the hangar isn't going to erase it." A small hand reaches for his bicep, and she scrutinises his face as if trying to decipher a complex piece of wiring. "Except… it's more than that, isn't it?" 

"You have no idea," he mutters.

"Hey, you weren't the only one who kriffed up that day on the _Raddus_ ," Rose snaps, her cheeks flushed. "We all made mistakes, we all have things to atone for…" Her voice cracks and he feels it in his heart. "But hiding in the dark isn't going to change what happened. What we did. We just have to pull ourselves together, and try not to repeat the same mistakes." 

Poe hums contemplatively, hoping it will drown out the sound of his heart beating in his ears. The hull of his battered X-Wing feels painfully cool beneath his hand. 

_No, we just find ways to make brand new ones instead,_ he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Up next... What does Mara Jade do with her newfound knowledge? 👀


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mara reveals exactly what happened in those missing hours on Coruscant, and contemplates what to do with the knowledge of Rey's connection to her Supreme Idiot nephew… Meanwhile, Pryde forces Hux’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: Violence, executions (non-graphic but potentially distressing), vomiting.
> 
> Thank you again to my lovely friend Rey_Lo for her unwavering friendship and support, as well as all the wonderful writers over at The Workshop who talked me through my anxieties over this chapter.

When Mara emerges from her sleeping quarters, she finds Rey already in the cockpit, sipping a lukewarm cup of caf. Dark circles line the girl’s eyes, but there is a weary determination in her gaze. And, Mara notes with some interest, a scrap of torn fabric covering up that curious scar… 

“Morning, Mara,” she says on a yawn. “Did you sleep well?”

“About as well as you, by the looks of things.”

Mara’s own sleep had been far from refreshing, and not merely because she had been tossing and turning as she tried to process the events of - kriff, had it only been yesterday she had witnessed Rey and Kylo together? The Force itself seemed to be in turbulence. Not from the great cosmic pain of another genocidal event. This agony felt raw. Personal. Several times, she had come close to rising from her bed and knocking on Rey's door. But her resolve had failed to crystallise, and the litany of questions dancing on her tongue had remained unspoken.

As the Emperor’s Hand, she had wheedled secrets from Senators and chanteuse, Generals and gangsters, merchants and mercenaries, rebels and writers. Be it intelligence, subterfuge, or simply scandal that made one vulnerable to blackmail and coercion - given a few hours and no scruples, Mara Jade would own their deepest secrets.

She accepts a mug of caf from Rey, and slides into the pilot’s chair. According to the navholo, they should reach the Cademimu sector in under an hour, and be back on Ajan Kloss shortly after.

“It’ll be good to be back on a planet with actual fresh air,” Mara says as she sips her beverage. The taste is bitter - she would normally take this variant with a generous helping of nectar to sweeten it - but tolerable. “I don’t know how anyone chooses to live on Lah’mu - I swear, I could still smell the sulphur on my hair this morning!”

“Sometimes, choice has very little to do with it,” Rey replies. Her eyes are glassy, and evidently remembering a barren desert landscape. The lush, rolling hills of Lah’mu must have been paradise in comparison. Mara’s lips part to offer an apology, but Rey clears her throat and twists her body to look her mentor in the eyes. “I wanted to ask you something, Mara…”

Mara nods. “Ask away,” she says, preparing to school her features into an appropriate mask of surprise.

“On Coruscant, when you… left me…” Her voice wavers, but she continues, “Did Leia _really_ send you on a side mission?” Her stare is accusatory.

“The very fact that you’re asking me suggests you already know the answer,” Mara says, running a hand through her tangled hair. The vials of Haidera serum - currently tucked into the pocket of her jacket - feel suddenly heavy. She forces herself to look at Rey, half-afraid to see splatters of phantom blood on her hands… “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t done in her interests. And I swear, it also had nothing to do with those Star Destroyers appearing over Coruscant.” Bile rises in her throat with remembered fear - the fear that she had left Rey alone and vulnerable within the grasp of the First Order. The bone-crushing _relief_ she had felt upon finding her pupil safe in the Jedi Archives had soon been replaced with annoyance at the girl’s disobedience of her orders.

Of course, with the sight of Rey and the Supreme Leader not only communicating across the galaxy - and almost cordially too - Mara wonders how much danger there had ever truly been…

“I know, and I trust you,” Rey says, even as her lips purse in an unspoken question.

“But you’re wondering if Leia should,” Mara finishes. “Look, I know that you and Leia have a special… relationship.” At the girl’s puzzled expression, Mara sighs. “She cares for you.”

“She cares for everyone.”

“Rey, the look Leia gave me when I said I was taking you to Coruscant with me… I think she’d have more readily let me cut off her arm than relinquish you. You _are_ special to her - and not just because of your powers.” 

Rey squirms in her chair. “I won’t lie to her,” she says into the distance.

“And I won’t ask you to,” Mara says, reaching for the girl’s hand. “You’re a terrible liar - your eyes are too honest. But, if you could _not_ mention what happened on Coruscant… I would be forever in your debt.”

Rey’s mouth hardens, but she gives a nod. “Leia trusts you - I know that. And I trust you too. But,” she hesitates, and becomes suddenly fascinated with the swills of her caf, “Would she trust you if she knew you had killed someone?”

She laughs - a dark, sinister sound. “Leia has never been under any illusions about what I am, and what I’ve done. Yes, once upon a time I was a killer. Yes, I did unspeakable things - things that would give you horrifying nightmares. And yes, I _will_ probably find myself in a situation where I have to take life again - a situation you too may find yourself in, Rey. But I have never, in more than twenty years, taken a life for any reason beyond protecting myself and others. Now, I know it doesn’t wash away the sins of the past - I doubt anything ever will - but at least I can sleep at night.”

* * *

The sun is already high overhead, near blinding in its intensity, when the _Jade’s Fire_ breaks atmo over Ajan Kloss. Mara deftly pilots it over a canopy of broadleaf trees, until the base emerges on the jungle outskirts. 

Several figures in loose linen shirts mill around, and she spots the familiar grubby exterior of the _Falcon_ at the end of the small airstrip. In the bad old days, she had poured over maps of rebel strongholds, and mocked them for their paltry resources. 

In spite of that, they had toppled the Empire. 

But the Rebellion of old had at least been armed with more than six X-Wings, a capricious Corellian freighter (even if it is the most famous ship in the damn galaxy), and a Personal Luxury Yacht. 

_They also had hope,_ Mara thinks with a pang, _Something which feels in very short supply nowadays._

As they land, a small contingent has already gathered to greet them. Unsurprisingly, General Leia stands at the front, the look of overwhelming relief on her face visible even at a distance. 

The sweltering heat of the jungle hits Mara as soon as the cargo doors open, and she regrets not swapping her grey shirt for a more favourable colour. No sooner has Rey stepped off the gangplank than her friends - the engineer, the communications officer and the defected stormtrooper - pounce on her in a series of warm hugs and bombardment of questions. Though her happiness and relief sparks in the Force, Mara can see that Rey is almost overwhelmed at this rush of affection. 

Chewbacca soon follows, grabbing the girl by the waist and swinging her in the air as if she were a babe. < _Welcome home, Little One, > _ he trills, before setting Rey down and cradling her face in his giant paw. His eyes radiate affection and warmth. _ <Looks like you lost the bet,> _ he adds with a wink.

But Leia’s greeting, while less effusive, is equally tender. She holds Rey close for a moment, her eyes closed, and there is something so very _maternal_ about the gesture. 

Mara remembers when Leia had held a small, dark-haired boy with that same tenderness and love… Her stomach knots at the thought.

It feels like an age passes before Leia relinquishes her hold on Rey. The girl is then dragged away by her bunk mates as the general approaches Mara _._

“How did my first mission go, General Organa?” Mara asks what she hopes is a playful tone. “Have I been successfully initiated into the Resistance, and - more importantly- when do I get an office of my own?”

Leia snorts. “I’m not sure it counts when the mission was your idea in the first place.” She reaches for Mara’s hand, and her voice drops. “But thank you for keeping Rey safe."

"Kid doesn't need me for that, but I'll take your gratitude nonetheless." Mara pauses, then sighs. "We didn't encounter them personally, but the First Order has a somewhat greater presence on Coruscant than I anticipated."

A lifetime of dancing around political intrigue means Leia is able to keep her expression neutral. "Define 'greater presence'."

"Two Star Destroyers in the sector when we left," Mara says with a grimace. "No troopers, and no officers that we encountered - though I grant you, the Jedi Archive probably isn't one of their regular hangouts." She rubs a hand over the back of her neck, the skin already damp and sticky from the humid jungle. "What are you thinking?"

A look of consideration fills Leia's face. "Not an act of war then," she says after a momentary pause. Her fingers twist and fiddle with the blue jewelled ring upon her right hand. 

"No," Mara agrees. "But potentially plenty of supporters in the business and political elite in the Core - Coruscant especially. They've made their grand statement with the Hosnian System - or, Snoke did at least." Her lips curl into a sad smile. "It seems that your son may be playing the more difficult and dangerous game of politics."

Leia's Force signature sparks with _pain_ , like the sear of a whip against bare flesh. But if anyone can play the game of galactic politics with the form and finesse to win, it is Leia Organa herself - if only she can apply cold, hard tactics and logic when her opponent is her own child.

* * *

Hux has barely commenced his lunchtime rations when the comm from Pryde comes through. The message is short, perfunctory and disappointing.

_No current Resistance presence detected._

A frustrated growl escapes him. Though the lead which had sent the _Steadfast_ to Axxila had been tenuous, Hux had already concocted a fantasy of cornering the Resistance like vermin, and obliterating them as should have happened on Crait. A victory for the military men when Ren and his mysticism and stupid laser sword had failed.

Though Hux would grudgingly admit that Ren's recent political manoeuvring was clever - and clearly something inherited from his rebel mother - he found such games frustrating. Dancing around the rebel scum might take years to eradicate them. Even a bantha would only tolerate its insect nuisances for so long - and right now, Hux's patience was worn gossamer thin.

Especially since, once his instructions had been given to the Incom-FreiTek board, Ren had been conspicuously absent from ongoing negotiations. But then, Hux muses, that had always been Ren's function in the old days - a brutal weapon, to sweep in, neutralise a threat or incite terror, and then vanish. Effective as Ren had been in his enforcer role - and even despite his hatred for the man, Hux was forced to acknowledge his successes - he was ill-suited to the marathon and complexities of ruling.

Vader had at least remembered his place in the hierarchy. 

Hux sighs, and takes a long swig of his caf. The drink is almost stone cold now. He flicks through a series of memos from Armand Valorum, the tone of which borders on the sycophantic. He rolls his eyes. Clearly, he believes these memos are being personally read and auctioned by the Supreme Leader. 

The same Supreme Leader who, if scuttlebutt is accurate, is currently holed up in his rooms, training with one of his knights and _moping,_ whilst Hux is doing his blasted administrative work.

Pity that Pryde hadn't found any of the rebel scum on Axxila, he muses as he taps his fingers against the desk. There would have been something deliciously satisfying about having them interrogated and executed. Like lancing pus from a boil.

He reads through Valorum's memo once more, and adds another hundred TIE Fighters to the order inventory simply because he can.

* * *

Although there are rations aplenty on the _Jade's Fire_ , the notion takes Mara to join her new comrades in the mess for dinner. She has of course heard the speculation about where the meat in the stew has come from… and whilst her younger self would have balked at consuming food of suspicious veracity, two decades as a smuggler and countless meals in dodgy cantinas throughout the Outer Rim have washed the snobbery off her. 

The quiet which descends as she steps into the mess tent is entirely expected. Mara would be lying if she didn't admit to a modicum of enjoyment at the notoriety. Evidently, someone has let slip the details of her past to her new comrades.

Rey's face hardens, before she rises from her seat and waves Mara over to their table.

The older woman slips onto the bench beside Rey, who proceeds to introduce her to her friends. Chewie of course Mara knows, and he greets her with a nod. The engineer with cable ties in her hair and grease-stained overalls is called Rose; Kaydel is the gregarious communications lieutenant (who, Mara notes, is _clearly_ infatuated with the defected Stormtrooper called Jannah). The other ex-trooper is called Finn, and the pilot to his left, who regards Mara with narrowed eyes, is called Poe Dameron. 

There's a familiar arrogance in Dameron. Typical reckless flyboy, she thinks, but she shakes his hand nonetheless. Unconsciously, she pats the pocket containing the vials of Haidera serum, and wonders if he is the pilot the drug is destined for.

By all accounts, the stew is not the _worst_ meal Mara has ever eaten - and zymod meat is infinitely more palatable than womp-rat - and, though the bread is stale, it soaks up the watery gravy enough to make both edible, even if she has to chew for a few minutes before swallowing. It gives her time to listen, and nod, and give the impression of being utterly fascinated with the conversations happening around her.

 _ <That Ovissian merchant ripped us off,> _ Chewie growls in between gulps of caf as he recounts his recent supply run. _ <Eight hundred credits to refuel the _ **_Falcon_ ** _! And that was after negotiation! > _

Mara whistles. "It's only going to get worse, Chewie," she says. "Frankly, you were lucky to even find someone in the Outer Rim still taking New Republic credits. Give it six months, and it'll be a defunct currency. Don't suppose this moon just happens to have a coaxium deposit beneath the base?"

Poe snorts. "Yeah, because we've been that lucky in all other regards." He turns to the engineer. "So, Rose - how is your little rechargeable vehicle project going? Any chance you can upgrade it to include X-Wings?"

Rose rolls her eyes, and launches into what sounds like a well-trodden explanation of the impracticalities of solar powered starships. Everyone's eyes seem to glaze over, except for Rey, who nods sagely and occasionally interjects. Even Mara, who would definitely admit to knowing her way around a starship or two, is impressed by their knowledge. Chewie is positively glowing with pride.

"Okay, okay, we get it, you're an engineer, not a miracle worker," Poe eventually interrupts, his hands in the air. "Add fuel prices to the list of things to worry about. And I was worried I'd never live long enough to go grey."

"Says the man who walked away from a crash in the kriffing desert," Finn says, giving his friend a playful back slap. "You're indestructible, buddy."

It's a subtle thing - the faintest crease around his eyes - but as Mara looks at Poe Dameron, she is almost certain that he is Harter's pilot with bloodburn.

 _Reckless indeed,_ she thinks, concealing her frown behind her cup.

* * *

The remainder of dinner passes companionably enough. Rose and Finn seem to warm up to Mara - they ask her questions about her ship, about the planets she has visited, and she even shares a story or two from her smuggling days. She has never been one to have a large group of friends - truly, she suspects the only real friends she currently has are Lando and perhaps even Leia - but she could see herself eventually fitting in with this ragtag band.

At any rate, they are considerably more engaging companions than the Imperial elite she had spent her formative years alongside. 

But, Mara notes, Rey herself seems somewhat disengaged from the group. Oh, she chats and interacts with, but there is always a distance. Something which runs deeper than the scars of loneliness. Mara recognises that forlorn look - she had seen it before, in a little boy with ancient eyes, whose sad gaze haunts her even now...

When the food plates are swept away, and the sabacc deck is brought out, Mara feigns a yawn, and bids Rey and her friends goodnight. But instead of heading back to her ship, she wanders the base until she finds a grey tent at the edge of the jungle. A sickly light pours out through the open flap, and even before she enters, she can hear Harter milling around and humming softly to herself, some melancholy operatic tune.

Mara sucks in a breath, straightens her shoulders and says, "Knock knock."

The melody stops, and she hears Harter huff a sigh. "Come in, Mara. I've been expecting you."

The med-tent is empty, save a rusted and creaking FX-6 droid beeping quietly in the corner. Harter is leaning against her desk, arms folded over her chest and her face impassive, even as a storm rages in her gaze.

"Were you successful?" She asks, voice hard as flint.

"Kriff, Harter, you could at least open with the pleasantries, make some show of civility," Mara retorts. "But yes, I was successful. Nearly cost me my damn life, but I have the bloody serum." She digs in her trouser pocket, and slams the package into Harter's waiting hand. "Humour me," she snarls, "What would you have told Leia if I had been killed whilst on your little fetch quest?"

The doctor flinches as though she has sustained a physical blow. "When you say you nearly died…"

Mara begins to pace, unable to meet Harter's eyes and see the inevitable scorn in them. "How did you think I was going to get hold of that serum, Harter? Just stroll into the nearest MedCentre with a fake name, and walk out with a supply and a bill? There's a reason you asked me rather than Chewie for help - because you knew the sort of people I'd have to go through to get it." She sighs. "The sort of people who have no compunctions about ambushing you with five others." Her gaze snaps to Harter, whose face has gone ghostly white. "Good thing I'm handy with a blaster, even if Rodian blood is a bastard to get out."

Silence hangs in the air, heavy as durasteel. Mara can hear the pounding of her heart. Her eyes flutter closed, but all she sees is a haze of blaster fire, shots ricocheting off the walls, bodies lying prone, and thick green blood seeping into her garments and soaking her skin. Tears burn her eyes, and she angrily wipes them away.

A soft hand brushes Mara's shoulder. She recoils from the touch. Every dark voice, every doubt, every fear that she had never truly stopped being the monster Sidious had fashioned her into, echo in her mind.

"Did Leia tell you that the First Order arrived on Coruscant when we were there?" Mara whispers on a ragged breath. "My life might not matter to you… but if I had died, what would have happened to _Rey_?" She turns to face Harter. "She might deny it, but all of Leia's hopes are on that girl's shoulders - a burden she is far too young to bear, if you ask me. If Rey had ended up in First Order custody…" She shakes her head. "Poe Dameron better be damn worth it."

To her credit, Harter keeps the surprise from her face. "I have no idea what you mean."

"As if I couldn't figure it out," Mara scoffs. "He might have been a sadistic, evil, megalomanical bastard, but I did pick up a thing or two from the Emperor, you know. Especially when it comes to reading people. But, since you're already breaking one rule of your profession, I'll let you stick to the others." 

Harter nods. "Thank you. And again, I'm sorry." Her voice wavers. "I never intended for you to put yourself in danger; but perhaps that was hopelessly naive of me." She runs a hand through her hair, once black as obsidian, now as streaked with grey as Mara's own. 

"Not naive," Mara corrects gently. "Hopeful. You want to believe the best in people. Even me." She huffs a laugh. "No wonder we never worked out."

That teases a smile from Harter. "Yes, because otherwise we were one hundred percent compatible." She shakes her head, and there is almost something fond in the gesture. She swallows, and hesitates before asking, "Can I convince you to stay for a cup of tea? Admittedly not the ideal way of thanking you for risking your life but-"

Mara holds up a hand. "Tea would be lovely, thank you." 

They manage to avoid sniping at one another through the first cup, and are almost cordial by the second. 

As she swirls the dregs of her tea, Mara risks broaching a topic which has preyed on her mind even before her arrival on Ajan Kloss. 

"How do you think Leia is coping?"

Harter makes a contemplative sound. "On the surface, she's as strong as ever. Unflappable. But beneath?" She shrugs. "Leia is only human - not that _she_ would ever admit to that. She'll hold it together until she breaks. And the day that happens…" A dark look crosses Harter's face. "Well, I fear for all of us."

"She's been through a lot," Mara says. "To put it mildly." She bites her lip, and the next words are in the air before she can contemplate the ramifications of them. "Did you know her son?"

The stiffening of Harter's posture, the way her teacup trembles as she lifts it to her lips, is indication enough that Kylo Ren's identity is not a mystery to her. 

"I was the physician attending Leia when she gave birth," she says in a quiet voice that Mara almost has to strain to hear. "I've delivered hundreds of babies; most of them I don't remember much of, but I remember _that_ delivery well. Not just because Leia is my friend - honestly, we barely knew one another before I cared for her during her pregnancy - but because of the date. I suspect everyone in the galaxy knows what they were doing when the Galactic Concordance was announced." She regards Mara shrewdly. "Dare I even ask…?"

"You'd get a surprisingly boring answer, actually. In a cantina on Phorliss."

"Drowning your sorrows?"

Mara chuckles wearily. "Working as a waitress." Harter's eyebrows almost disappear into her hairline. "What? A girl's gotta eat, and I was about as popular with the remaining Imperial hierarchy as I was with the New Republic." Her thoughts drift back to that grubby cantina, with its watered down drinks and Gorb Drig, its Houk proprietor. It had been hard work, and a sharp contrast to the splendor and opulence of the Imperial Palace. More than one overly familiar patron had come close to losing their hand to her lightsaber had it not been too conspicuous a weapon. Even still, Mara looked back on those months on Phorliss with a certain nostalgia.

Unfortunately, it hadn't lasted. Bloodshed followed her like a shadow in those days - even now, it continues to haunt her. And that was without considering the constant echo of Sidious' final command in her mind. _Kill Luke Skywalker..._

Even if Black Nebula hadn't arrived on Phorliss and ravaged her workplace, her own demons would have driven her back to darkness.

"But enough about that," Mara says, shaking her head as if to knock loose the memories. She fixes Harter with a serious stare. "I knew him too - albeit briefly. Sweet kid. Messy eater. I could never, _ever_ have imagined what he would grow up to be."

"Me neither," Harter replies quietly. 

"I mean, how do you reconcile the kid I used to sneak sweets to with…" She sighs, and pushes her cup away. "Well, with Kylo Ren?"

"If _you're_ struggling, imagine how Leia feels."

"You're an optimist, Harter. Do you honestly think there's any hope that he'll ever come back to her?"

Harter hisses a breath. "I'm not sure you'd like my answer," she says, a few stray hairs falling into her eyes as she shakes her head. "There are some lines that can't be uncrossed, and some sins that can't be forgiven."

Even though the name remains unspoken, an image of Han's cocksure grin flashes in Mara's mind, swinging a giggling boy in his arms. The vision shifts, and she sees a bridge bathed in darkness, a figure robed in black plunging a sparking red lightsaber into the chest of the same man who held him and kissed him and loved him. But the figure who watches his father plummet into darkness does not look triumphant. He looks _broken._

She thinks back to that moment she had witnessed between Rey and Kylo Ren - a Force bond, she guesses, for even the clearest holoimage could not mimic a Force signature. 

A Force signature that was not rippling with triumphant dark energy but instead a maelstrom of pain and confusion and _longing_.

Mara remembers her own darkness - how deeply seductive and _powerful_ it felt. The promises it whispered, the way it quashed any seeds of doubt within her and hardened her heart to deceit and cruelty. She had been steadfast in her resolve because she knew no other way. 

As she bids Harter goodnight, and meanders back to the _Jade's Fire_ , she wonders if the boy she once knew as Ben Solo is irrevocably lost to darkness, or if there might still be hope… 

And with that, Mara's resolve crystallises, and her course of action becomes clear. 

But first, she has to speak with Leia.

* * *

The bridge of the _Finalizer_ is abuzz with ordered activity as Hux enters. He casts his subordinates barely a glance as he marches to the main viewpoint. Coruscant hangs amidst the stars, and he hopes that their time in the system will soon be at an end. All business with Sienar-Jaemus was nearing its conclusion, and he itched to return to military matters rather than politics. 

As if on cue, he watches the _Steadfast_ shudder back into realspace, blocking his view of the planet below. 

A smirk tugs at his lips when one of the Lieutenants - a sallow young man whose name he thinks might be Mitaka - approaches him. "General Hux," he says with a salute, "I have an urgent communique from Allegiant General Pryde."

Well, despite his mixed feelings towards the man, Hux certainly could not fault Pryde's efficiency. 

A hologram of the man in question appears; the grey, flickering image makes him appear almost _sinister._ (Or more so, Hux mentally amends.) The look in his eyes could almost be described as a leer; and despite the disappointment of not finding the Resistance on Axxila, his demeanour is positively triumphant. 

They trade the usual military pleasantries and salutes, before Pryde crisply requests permission for his shuttle to board the Finaliser. _That_ pricks Hux's interest.

"Permission granted," he says, before offering a parting salute and terminating the comm.

Orders are barked at the officers on the bridge before he marches off. 

The journey in the turbo lift to the main hangar feels like an age; giving him ample time to mull over why Pryde wishes to meet… and if he briefly fantasises about a triumphant coup and Ren being led away to the brig, bloodied and in chains, then who is to know?

Stormtroopers pause in their steps and cling to the walls as he exits the turbo lift and enters the hangar bay. Aside from a handful of engineers and their astromech assistants, there are few souls about. Every inch of the durasteel walls glistens, and the air is filled with the satisfying thrum of magnetic shields. It is beautiful and ordered and _his._ Pride bubbles in Hux's chest. His long coat sweeps behind him as he marches along the row of gleaming TIE fighters. 

He thinks of the battered and rusted vehicles the Resistance had used on Crait, and a cruel smile crosses his face. He had received final confirmation this morning that Sienar-Jaemus had successfully completed their acquisition of Incom-FreiTek. The X-Wing would soon be consigned to museums and historical archives only. And, without a fleet, quashing the Resistance would be as simple and satisfying as crushing insects beneath his boot.

He makes a show of inspecting the engineers as they work, but really it is an excuse to admire his fleet. 

An alarm sounds, piercing and shrill, as the shield opens enough to allow Pryde's sleek Upsilon Class vessel to enter the hangar bay. Hux watches in contemplative silence, ignoring that persistent buzz of anxiety every time he feels the air shift as it is sucked into the vacuum of space.

Once the shield has been reset, and Pryde's ship has smoothly landed, Hux releases a breath. He runs a gloved hand over his face, and fixes a poised, determined expression on his features.

When Pryde emerges from the shuttle, flanked by two of his officers, there is a smile on his thin lips. There has always been something snake-like about his features, and Hux gets the impression he is preparing to strike. 

And the reason for his smile becomes apparent when several Stromtroopers appear from the shuttle, followed by four shackled prisoners - three human males and an Ovissian, all bloodied and dressed in civilian garb. 

Even at a distance, the sight of blood causes nausea to rise in Hux, and he feigns a cough to disguise his gag. Somewhere deep in his mind, he hears the scornful voice of his father admonishing him for such a petty weakness. 

But Brendol Hux is but a ghost now; and even ghosts can be silenced.

Hux raises his hand in a salute, before gripping Pryde by the elbow and hissing, "You said there was no sign of the Resistance!"

Allegiant General Pryde is unperturbed at being manhandled by the younger man. His smile only widens. "No _current_ presence," he corrects, positively bathing Hux in smugness. He turns towards the younger of his officers, and snaps his fingers. The man gives a wordless nod and scurries away. "It seems we just missed them. A lucky escape, alas. But it was not entirely a wasted trip." He places a hand on Hux's back, and begins to guide him towards the prisoners.

The humanoids look petrified, and the youngest - a portly man whose features are almost indistinguishable beneath the bruises that litter his face - is _whimpering_. In sharp contrast, the Ovissian has a defiant look despite his cut and bloodied features and the blaster pointed at his back. 

"It appears that the Resistance sent a few of their operatives to Axxila on," and here Pryde has to suppress a dark chuckle, "A supply run, of all things. And these merchants were charitable enough to do _business_ with them." His tone is casual and yet it chills Hux to the marrow. "Examples have to be made."

The clatter of boots somewhere behind him tears Hux's gaze away from the prisoners. Two Stormtroopers are striding towards him, their black accented helms and laser axes marking them as Executioners. To their rear, follow three officers - led by Pryde's own aide - carrying holorecorders. 

At the sight of the laser axes, one of the human prisoners begins to wail, a sound that would rattle lesser men. Hux sneers. Those who consorted with the Resistance were by definition enemies of the First Order. 

Still, he leans in close to ask, "Are the theatrics entirely necessary?"

The lines on Pryde's face deepen as he frowns. "One cannot win a war with weaponry alone, _Armitage,_ " he counters in a low, dangerous voice. His eyes _burn_. "A lesson our Supreme Leader has clearly learned. Perhaps he might offer you some tuition on the matter?"

Venom courses in Hux's veins; he can flush the flush of rage creeping up his neck and filling his face. When he speaks, the words come out as a snarl. "Do what you have to then, _Enric_."

With a snap of his gloved fingers, Pryde beckons the Execution Troopers forwards. They nod. As if in tandem, their laser axes spark to life. With the holorecorder clicking in the background, the troopers step forwards.

Blood pounds in Hux's ears, drowning out Pryde's words. The Allegiant General paces before the merchant prisoners, all but the Ovissian now in a frenzied panic as their impending fates dawn upon them. Their voices grate on Hux's soul. He forces himself to watch, lips pulled tight, as the laser axes fall on the first two prisoners, their heads hitting the floor with a dull thud. How much cleaner and more efficient Starkiller had been, he thinks with a pang of longing. A flash of red, and instant, bloodless oblivion. 

Still, the cruelest recesses of his heart _sing_. For the Resistance, and its allies, then a more personalised death was undoubtedly fitting. Like the Stormtrooper traitor who had killed Phasma. If FN-2187 were ever to cross Hux's path again, he would take glee in doling out a fitting and brutal punishment.

So caught up in his fantasies, he does not immediately notice that Pryde is standing before him. Frowning. Scrutinizing him. 

Then, Pryde turns to the nearest Executioner. "Give me your weapon," he barks. 

Perhaps if the Trooper's face was not obscured by the helmet, Hux would see a look of confusion. Instead, only the merest tilt of their head betrays any emotion as their laser axe is handed to Pryde. 

Hux does not have the benefit of a helmet to disguise his own bewilderment as Pryde then turns and forces the weapon into _his_ hands. "What the-"

Pryde jerks his head in the direction of the Ovissian prisoner. Though his composure remains intact, there is a flicker of fear in his eyes. 

"Kill him," Pryde says.

"Me?" Hux splutters, and the laser axe almost slips from his grasp in shock. Perspiration gathers on his brow, and his gut contorts.

Disgust fills the older man's face. "This is an enemy of the First Order. Ending his life ought to be easy as breathing for a _loyal_ general." He grips Hux's hands upon the axe's handle. "Or are you too proud to get your hands dirty, _Armitage_ ?" Pryde pushes his face closer; close enough for Hux to smell the sweat and cologne on his skin; close enough to count the wrinkles on his brow. "The _Supreme Leader_ himself joined the fray on Kijimi… he is not afraid to raise a weapon and end a life. Little boys who play at power games are content to sit in their comfortable ships and let others shed blood in their name. True leaders shed it themselves."

By the time Pryde's whispered speech is over, Hux's entire body thrums with rage. The weapon trembles in his grasp - and the prisoner must see it, as a smirk paints his cut face. 

Something snaps. Hux lunges forward, brandishing the laser axe and cleaving the Ovissian's head clean off. As it hits the floor, and glassy eyes stare back at him, those lips remain frozen in a smirk.

As the holorecorder clicks off once the fourth and final prisoner is dead, albeit at the hands of an Executioner rather than himself, Hux drops the laser axe with a dull clatter. Gloved hands clutch his thighs as he doubles over and hot bike spills from his throat. It burns; but shame burns hotter.

Once his stomach is empty, he gasps greedy gulps of air before straightening and marching towards the hangar bay exit. Whispers follow him, but not loud enough to drown out the taunts of his father's ghost in his mind. 

_Weak. Pathetic. A disappointment._

And without glancing behind, Hux knows that Pryde is following him. 

As soon as they are ensconced in the turbo lift, Hux grabs him by the bicep, hard enough to bruise. He can still taste bile and vomit on his tongue, and sweat drips down his back.

"Don't _ever_ presume to manipulate me like that again," he snarls. A droplet of saliva lands on Pryde's face, but the older man appears unperturbed, wiping it away with a gloved hand.

"Tell me, Hux," he says slowly, brushing away the hand gripping him. "What do you think happens when the galaxy hears the name Armitage Hux? Hmmm?"

Breaths escape Hux in short pants. "How the kriff should I know?"

"Then allow me to elucidate, Hux. _Nothing_ . Absolutely _nothing_. You are utterly unknown. Anonymous. But if I were to say the name Kylo Ren…" 

Hux grimaces; at the sight, triumph flashes over Pryde's sallow features. 

"You see now? Even before he slaughtered his way to the throne, Ren was notorious throughout the galaxy as a figure of terror. Whilst he is currently deluding himself that he can be a benevolent dictator, his name still evokes that visceral reaction wherever it is spoken." He jabs a finger into Hux's chest. "Whereas you are no one. Nothing."

Ire rises in Hux. "My father built the Stormtrooper programme from the ashes of the Empire," he snaps. "I oversaw the development of Starkiller! I have the unwavering loyalty of every trooper, and I command the largest Star Destroyer in the fleet!"

Pryde shakes his head, unimpressed. "Wilhuff Tarkin gave the order for the destruction of Alderaan. Orson Krennic built the Death Star. These men may be your boyhood idols - great men, whose actions guided history - but say their names in any market or cantina on any planet, and no one will know them. Anonymous cannot be a leader, Armitage. Quite frankly, you could use the publicity."

Hux's leather glove creaks as he clenches the fist hanging at his side. " _Publicity_!? You humiliated me in front of my subordinates!" His voice echoes off the panels of the turbo lift.

"We'll edit that bit out before we broadcast it," Pryde says calmly. "But tomorrow, that will be all over the holonet, and _your_ path to infamy will begin. Plus, it will send a message to anyone who might consider helping or harbouring the Resistance. A few more of those-"

At those words, Hux's eyes bulge. His stomach gives another unpleasant lurch. "More?" He scoffs. "Absolutely not!" The thought of his visage being broadcast across the galaxy, not for his speeches or military prowess, but as Ren's _executioner_ causes the deep chasms of rage within him to overflow. Having to suffer under his leadership was falling enough, but _this_ was a humiliation too far.

"And such high hopes I had for you," Pryde replies, shaking his head. "Doubt, it seems, is my oft-neglected friend. Perhaps you were never cut out for leadership. After all, even our brooding, melancholy Supreme Leader had the resolve to kill his own father rather than devolving the task to his attack dog."

Hux's eyes practically bulge; and now the fury within him is a tsunami. But, before he can lash out, an alarm pierces the tension with a shrill wail.

The door to the turbo lift slides open with a puff of air, and Lieutenant Mitaka is standing before them, his face blotchy and sweating. "General Hux, Allegiant General Pryde," he pants, one hand upon his heaving chest as he drinks in greedy gulps of air. "A ship just jumped out of hyperspace and-"

Remembered humiliation filled Hux, and his spine stiffens. "Dameron?" He interrupts, spitting the name out like poison. Once, he had underestimated the pilot - and had been thrown across the bridge and berated by Snoke in full view of the entire bridge. 

And Ren would likely be no less inclined to do the same.

Mitaka shakes his head. "No, but-"

"If you doubt the veracity of the vessel, Lieutenant," Pryde says with an unamused scowl, "Spare us the histrionics and simply blow it up." 

"But Allegiant General," Mitaka replies in a wavering voice, "It's hailing us with the Emperor's personal code."

It's as if Pryde has suddenly been frozen in carbonite; his jaw hangs slack, his eyes are glassy and unblinking, and even his chest barely seems to move with exhalation. But any speculation on what thoughts are turning in the Allegiant General's mind are for later. Hux grabs him by the arm, and drags him in the direction of the bridge, a breathless Mitaka following behind.

* * *

The door to the bridge hisses open, and the panicked flurry of activity ceases as everyone turns towards the Supreme Leader. But Kylo ignores them, his heart thundering beneath his breast as he storms towards the viewport. 

Disbelief - and yes, even a touch of _fear_ \- pulse in his blood. He tries to cling to reason; to reiterate that this is but a trick or deceit or distraction; that whatever or whomever is hailing them cannot be Sidious. And reason alone would almost be enough… if not for the powerful, rippling Force signature he can sense upon the vessel.

Of _course_ Hux and Pryde are already on the bridge. Kylo grimaces - it feels that cannot take so much as a breath without them clinging to him like a shadow. 

But whilst Hux is barking commands at Mitaka, demanding ship schematics and ordering the _Finalizer's_ weapons array to be readied, Pryde is uncharacteristically silent. Passive, almost. Behind his expressionless face, Kylo can almost see nostalgia and _longing_ in his eyes. 

Since that moment he had emerged from the abandoned base on Crait, humiliated and heartbroken (although not that he could have admitted it at the time), Kylo had been under no allusions as to the loyalties of his forces. Their allegiance was first and foremost to the First Order; whilst he might command that as Supreme Leader, their devotion was to the office and not the man. He was no Snoke; and certainly no Sidious. And, if faced with the latter… the looks of breathless anticipation mixed with confusion on the _Finalizer's_ crew serve as a sharp reminder of how tenuous his position truly is.

Perhaps he ought to order all weapons to fire on the vessel - eliminate the threat now. But something stays his hand.

Mitaka salutes as he approaches. "As best we can ascertain, the vessel is a Personal Luxury Yacht 3000," Mitaka says, holding out a datapad. "Scanners suggest some weapons modifications, but no heavy artillery. They're trying to set up a comm-link but we're currently jamming-"

"Patch them through," Kylo says, his voice low.

A static crackle fills the bridge. It grates on his soul, and he finds himself slowing his breathing to remain composed.

 **" _Figured that would get your attention_** **!"** A woman's voice booms over the comm link. A voice that Kylo has heard before - younger, less harsh, but so familiar. He sucks in a harsh gasp, tries to search his memory for the face and name of its owner desperately.

Hux clearly takes the Supreme Leader's contemplation as permission to speak. "This is General Armitage Hux of the First Order," he says imperiously. "I do not know how you obtained that code but it was foolish to use it. Identity yourself at once!"

_**"Well, hello General Armitage Hugs of the First Order. This is Mara Jade, the Hand of the Emperor, and I seek an audience with your Supreme Leader."** _

Mara Jade… Sudden as an electric jolt, a face fills his memory, one that had haunted him in his recent dreams. A woman with flame coloured hair and dark eyes and a mischievous smile… A woman who had bought him spiced cakes and laughed and conspired with him… A woman who had one cared for him…

"Aunt Mara?" Kylo whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I will try to squeeze in one more update before the end of the year, but if I don't manage, I wish you all a happy and safe New Year! 
> 
> Fun fact: Mara Jade working as a cantina waitress is not a product of my warped imagination, but an actual event from her comics series _Mara Jade - By The Emperor's Hand_ , which I have used heavily for inspiration in writing her character for this story.
> 
> Up next... What's a lovesick galactic warlord to do when his erstwhile Space Aunt comes a-knocking?


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What’s a lovesick galactic warlord to do when his erstwhile Space Aunt comes a-knocking?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Alas, I didn’t quite manage a final update in December… But here is it, just a few days late! 
> 
> I was about a week into plotting this story when the idea to bring Mara Jade along for the ride appeared. Almost immediately, I wrote the scene between her and Ben/Kylo - but of course, a very long prologue evolved en route. Almost 12 months after jotting down the words in my notebook, I can now share them with you.
> 
>  **Content warnings** : Alcohol, trauma, references to Han's death, mention of children.

**Twenty years earlier...**

_There were a multitude of places in the galaxy for a sufficiently morose individual to purge their feelings in a haze of alcohol and debauchery. Unfortunately for Mara Jade, most of them were already coloured by bad memories. Of the few that remained (at least, in systems where she wasn't still wanted for some ancient war crime), the majority were tainted with an even worse association._

_They were places she had been with Luke._

_Luke kriffing Skywalker, with his sanctimonious words and pious attitude and gentle hands and soft lips and **devastatingly** beautiful smile… _

_She knocked back another Bantha Blaster in disgust, and waited for the alcohol to numb the agony in her chest, or at least get her blind drunk enough to forget._

_Around her, the air thrummed with the laughter and jubilance of the other patrons. A Zeltron male sat at the far end of the bar, raising his glass in some effusive toast to the coos and applause of his companions._

_Perhaps she ought to have found a more down-at-heel establishment, Mara mused. Somewhere brimming with smugglers and bounty hunters and the honestly disreputable. At least then, no one would mind if she took a blaster to another patron._

_She was on the verge of lifting a hand to summon the servitor droid behind the bar when a familiar voice drawled her name._

_Mara tipped her empty glass in greeting as Han Solo slid onto the barstool beside her. Even with the alcohol blunting her senses, she noted the barely concealed frown, the tenseness to his posture. Misery rolled off him as he ordered a large Correllian whiskey, and downed it in a single gulp._

_"You look like shit," he told her, but there was no heat to the words._

_"Good," Mara retorted, teasing a high-pitched whine from her glass as her fingers circled the rim. "Finally the exterior reflects the person within, I suppose." She snapped her fingers, and almost instantaneously the servitor droid appeared with a fresh Bantha Blaster, its strange pink and green two-tone appearance looking increasingly less appealing with every glass._

_Han sighed, knocking the ice around his empty glass. "For what it's worth, Leia and I think he's an idiot. Even told him as much to his face." He rested an arm on the low back of Mara's chair. "Give it a couple months, and he'll come around."_

_"Well, I've had enough of that sanctimonious farm boy," Mara said with a derisory snort. "Let him come crawling back if he wants, but I have far better things to do." She raised her glass. "Like acquiring a taste for whatever is in this foul cocktail."_

_"How many have you had?" Han asked, his eyes soft and his frown no longer concealed._

_She shrugged. "Who cares? I'll drink till it stops hurting, and then drink some more! Maybe I'll try whiskey next!" She added a little too gleefully, her final word swallowed in a hiccup._

_Han beckoned the servitor droid back. "Glass of water for the lady. Actually, make it a jug. And, hey," he pointed a finger at the droid's face. "No more booze for her, you hear me buddy? She's had more than enough."_

_But when he tried to extricate the half-drunk cocktail from her hand, she hissed at him and clutched the stem of the glass tighter. Han merely sighed, and raised his hands in a placating gesture._

_In the background, other patrons chatted and laughed, filling the room with a pleasant vibe. But Mara and Han sat in silence, nursing their drinks and not meeting the others' eyes._

_Eventually, Mara pushed away her empty glass and greedily guzzled a glass of lukewarm water, before turning to Han with a weak smile. "Anyway, onto happier things. Where's your little Starfighter right now? Learning how to work the sabacc table at Uncle Lando's knee?"_

_Han's sullen mien had always brightened up at the mention of Ben. Fierce, almost incandescent love would blaze in his eyes. Though children puzzled and irritated her, Mara held a deep affection for the taciturn and soft hearted boy._

_But as soon as the name hit the air, Han frowned and pain filled his eyes. He ran a hand through his dark hair._

_"Ben's with Luke now," he said dejectedly, suddenly fascinated by the pattern of lights twinkling behind the bar. "His powers… they've been out of control recently. There's too much… you-know-who in him. Leia…" he cleared his throat. "Leia and Luke think that, if he trains as a Jedi, that he might control them better."_

_The snort which escaped Mara was unintentional; but Han's eyes flickered to hers. "You don't agree?" He said, and turned a sharp gaze upon her._

_“Look, he's **your** kid, not mine. I’m not going to interfere.” _

_"Since when have you ever kept an opinion to yourself?" Han said. He reached for Mara's hand. "Are we doing the right thing?"_

_“Well, my parents handed me over to the Emperor, so you can't really do much worse.” Mara deadpanned, and poured herself another glass of water. “Although…" She felt her heart constricted. "I don't suppose they had much scope to object and keep their lives."_

_Han's shoulders sagged. "No offense to your parents, but if the Empire tried to take my kid, I would fight until my last breath to stop them." He tilted the glass to his lips, even though it contained nothing but ice. "You ever look them up?"_

_Mara shook her head, eyes squeezed shut. Her fingers tightened on the stem of her glass until it shattered. But pain was calming; a welcome distraction from the emotional maelstrom coiling in her chest. The pads of her fingers pushed the glass in further, and she ignored Han's expletive-laden cry. Blood, hot and sticky, coated her palms._

**_At least this time, it's my own._ **

_"I didn't want to," she said after a moment. "Track them down. My parents," she clarified at Han's baffled expression. "Better that they forget me than realise the monster I became."_

_"Oh kriffing hell, Mara, would you stop with all the self-pitying and loathing? Stars! You were just a kid - you didn't know any better!" He stood, and, with a hand on the small of her back, guided her in the direction of the bar's fresher._

_The harsh lights stung her eyes, a stark contrast with the dimness of the main bar._

_With aching gentleness, Han plucked each shard of glass from her skin, washing away the blood and alcohol until all that remained was torn skin._

_"We'd better get you to a MedCentre if you ever want to fire a blaster again," he told her with the sternness of a parent scolding an errant child. "Some bacta should fix-"_

_But his next words were lost as Mara placed a finger of her uninjured hand to his lips._

_Bewilderment filled his eyes as she lowered that hand, and placed it atop the injured one. She closed her eyes and let the Force flow through her. The pleasant buzz of the alcohol faded, and a burning sensation spread from her fingertips along her ruined palm. She bit her lip, and tried to focus her energy._

_The pain receded, and with a satisfied smile, she held up a perfectly unmarred hand._

_A low whistle escaped Han. "Useful trick, that."_

_"Indeed. Alas, it's had the rather unfortunate side effect of sobering me up," she said ruefully, and grabbed the sleeve of his leather jacket. "Come on, next drink's on me!"_

_"I never really got all that Force mumbo-jumbo," Han told her back at the bar whilst the servitor droid poured them each a generous measure of whiskey. "Some of the stuff I've seen you and Luke and even Ben do… It's hard to believe." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Even in the dimness, Mara could see the grey poking through. "It's the worst feeling in the world, seeing your kid struggling and suffering, but not having a kriffing clue how to help them. I've never felt so powerless before. Hero of the rebellion, and I can't stop my own son from hurting." There was a pause, before he dropped his tone. "I've never told anyone this before… but sometimes I get jealous of folks like you and Luke and Leia. I'd give anything - stars, even the Falcon - to have that power, if it helped Ben." When he turned to regard her, his eyes were glistening._

_A pang filled Mara's chest. She reached over and gave Han's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You have something more essential than the Force," she said, the words hitching in her throat. "You're his **father** ; that's all he needs." Han scoffed, but Mara continued earnestly, "I'm serious! You love him, and that's more important than the ability to float rocks and swing a laser sword."_

_He took another swig of his drink before sighing. "You should try to find your parents, Mara. No matter what you did in the past… I think all they would care about is that you were home. That's all any parent wants, I suppose. For their kid to come home."_

_Mara pretended to look away whilst Han wiped his eyes; and if it gave her time to clean away the evidence of her own tears, then all the better._

_In an instant, Han's demeanour hardened. "Hey, you tell anyone about this conversation…" he said, pointing his finger a breath from her face._

_Mara blinked, her lips curling into a sly smile. "What conversation? Anyway, what business brings you to Cloud City?"_

_Han chuckled - a weak, insubstantial thing that did not meet his eyes. "I'm done with that business. Have been for years."_

_"Hey, maybe I should become a smuggler!" She quipped. "Sounds like since you retired there's a vacancy going!" At Han's incredulous stare, she shot him a look of mock offence. "Is that really so outrageous an idea? I've got plenty of the required skill set already, and I have a ship!"_

_"You have a yacht, kid. Hardly subtle."_

_"There's nothing wrong with my ship, Solo. At least she's held together with more than electric tape and hope."_

_They traded barbs for a few more minutes, before Han rose from his stool. "Time for me to head, I guess. Gotta be back on Hosnian Prime day after tomorrow."_

_"What's the rush? Leia dragging you to some dreadfully dull but important political event?" She asked, cocking her head playfully._

_Han grimaced. "Worse. The Core Bank Gala."_

_"Ah."_

_"Leia is insisting we go." There was a mulish quality to his tone more befitting of a scolded child than a notorious ex-smuggler turned Rebellion General, and Mara had to suppress a snicker. Han could take some teasing - normally, at least - but she sensed his emotions were too raw for that right now, no matter the facade he put up. "Don't get me wrong, the food is pretty spectacular, and the whiskey is always good," he said, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck, "but the guests-"_

_"Are either dull as bantha fodder, vindictive and evil, or just plain elitist," Mara finished. At Han's raised eyebrows, she shrugged. "I used to be on the guest list, back in the day."_

_Though it was supposedly the most prestigious event in the galactic calendar - one that even obscene wealth or royal blood would not necessarily guarantee an invite - Mara had never had the opportunity to actually enjoy it. Her attendance was purely to listen and seek out any signs of dissent or treachery against the Emperor. In a room full of the galaxy's elite, plotting of one flavour or another was inevitable - and who would suspect the pretty young dancer with wide eyes and a nervous giggle of having the ear of the Emperor himself?_

_She shook her head. "I'd tell you to have fun, but I think that's a bit of a stretch. Just try not to start a diplomatic incident, all right?"_

_A familiar gleam filled his gaze. "You know, we could probably inveigle you an invitation as part of our entourage - you can keep me company at the bar whilst Leia and Lando do all the carousing! What do ya say?"_

_Mara sighed. "Honestly Han? The two suns of Tattoine will freeze before I go back there. I'm done with all vestiges of that life now. I've wasted too long chasing other people's plans. Time to step out on my own again." But before she could turn to leave, she felt Han's hand upon her sleeve._

_"Look, my brother-in-law is an idiot - not that I need to tell you that," he said, before swallowing nervously. "But, even if what's between you is over… I want you to keep in touch with him, all right?" Before she could object, he raised a mollifying hand. "Not for his sake - but for Ben's. My kid adores you. Please don't cut him out of your life just because his Uncle is an ignorant moof-milker. Promise?"_

_Mara sucked in a breath before giving Han a curt nod. "I promise."_

_With a final hug and murmured goodbye, she slipped into the cool night, her mind abuzz from more than just alcohol._

* * *

Threepio had protested loudly when Mara arrived at Leia's quarters in the dead of night, and only the threat of scrappage had caused him to relent and allow her entry.

The General herself was already awake - or, more likely, had yet to go to bed. Her greying hair hung loose, and she was pouring over a datapad with a frown on her face.

Her eyes snapped to Mara as soon as she entered. "You know, there's nothing that makes me more nervous than _you_ appearing in the middle of the night," Leia had said.

"Occupational hazard, Leia," she replied. "I'll cut to the chase. I need to leave the base for a few days."

To Mara's surprise, Leia merely gave a sad smile and shook her head. "You've barely arrived. Is fighting authoritarianism not as glamorous as you expected?"

Annoyance flared within Mara, but she held her tongue. "And what if I told you I had a contact within the First Order who might be persuaded to help us?" She said, trying to erect some mental shielding even as her emotions were swirling like storm clouds. 

That caused a sharp hiss of breath from Leia. "And who, may I ask," she asked with a calm not reflected in the turbulence of her Force signature, "Is this contact?"

Mara shook her head. "Until I'm sure they're willing to help, I'm afraid my lips are sealed." She slipped into the chair opposite Leia, and took the other woman's hands in hers. "But I think - no, I _know_ \- that I can convince them to assist us, eventually. And no one knows I'm even with the Resistance, so what do we have to lose?"

"You."

Words caught in her throat as she felt a sudden wave of affection from Leia. "I didn't speak to you for nearly two decades, Leia," Mara said in a wavering voice, guilt coiling around her heart like vines. "You were fine without me before, and you'll be fine without me if…"

But Leia shook her head. The room fell silent, save for the chirping of the jungle's nocturnal insects. When she spoke, her words were thick with emotion, and more than a little weary. "You're my friend; and I know someone else who would be devastated if you were to disappear." Her eyes hardened. "She's been abandoned too many times already."

"Which is why I didn't just want to leave," Mara retorted, even as she castigated herself for doing just that just days earlier on Coruscant. But Rey had sworn to keep silent on the matter. "I wanted your permission, and to know that I would be welcomed back." Her thumb brushed Leia's knuckle, in a gesture as much for her own comfort as the General's. 

A weak chuckle escaped Leia. "You would always be welcome, Mara. Just… don't do anything reckless."

"Two words, Leia: Trash compactor."

* * *

As Mara sits in the cockpit, the shadow of a Star Destroyer engulfing the _Jade's Fire,_ she suspects that Leia's definition of "anything reckless" would definitely include taunting the First Order and demanding an audience with the galaxy's most powerful warlord.

Well, Sidious had never encouraged her to be timid.

It feels as though an age passes before the comm-link crackles back to life. **_"The Supreme Leader has agreed to meet with you,"_** comes the clipped voice of General Hux. **_"Proceed to the main hangar bay."_**

She sucks in a breath, and allows the Force to flow over her, to ease the roiling anxiety in her gut. Over the decades, she had faced any number of powerful, dangerous men with nary a flicker of nerves. Kylo Ren ought to be no different.

But then again, she had never wiped sticky glaze and cake crumbs off the cheeks of any of the others. Nor did she see their ten year old selves staring at her accusingly in her memories, with wide eyes and a trembling lower lip.

_I'm sorry, Ben._

* * *

“Why are we even entertaining this madwoman?” Hux mutters as he and Pryde march along the _Finalizer's_ corridors, Stormtroopers and officers parting in their wake. “And who is she?”

"I would have thought her introduction quite succinct - she was the Emperor’s Hand" Pryde replies, though his voice has a faraway quality. Hux scowls - the last thing he needs with this new development is Pryde getting lost in his nostalgia. "One of them at least."

When the doors to the turbo lift close, Pryde turns to the younger man. "Do you play Dejarik, Armitage?" He asks in a low voice.

This constant equivocation is beginning to fray Hux's last shred of patience. He presses a gloved hand to his temple to starve off a threatening headache. "My father taught me," he says, feeling the sting of old memories once more. Another task he had been inferior at in Brendol Hux's eyes, always too obvious in his strategies. "And what does that have to do with anything?"

“Because a very dangerous and unexpected piece has just come into the game. And I cannot predict which side she is on." With a suddenness Hux would not have expected from the older man, he presses the button to halt the turbolift descent. When his gaze snaps back to Hux, his eyes are almost black.

“I knew her - or should I say, knew _of_ her - in my younger days,” Pryde says, rubbing a hand over his chin. “She was a vacuous little thing, but she held Sidious’ favour. Most of us assumed she was either an illicit love child or simply a concubine he had a particular predilection for. Fools we were. She was something infinitely more dangerous and deadly. After all, ” a mirthless laugh escapes him, “Who would suspect a teenage girl of being his personal spy and assassin?” Pryde then grips Hux’s arm and stares at him with dead eyes. “Pray to whatever gods you worship, Armitage, that she is simply here to kill Ren. For if she is here to ally with him…” he shakes his head. “That scavenger girl is _nothing_ compared to Mara Jade.”

* * *

All Star Destroyer hangar bays probably look the same, Mara supposes as she steers the _Jade’s Fire_ into a landing. But, with the rows of glistening TIE Fighters, and the legion of white helmeted Stormtroopers stood with blasters clutched to their chests, she feels uncomfortably like she has stepped back in time. 

This time, however, there is no black-helmed Vader waiting to greet her; simply two senior officers with sour expressions and an army at their back. She scoffs. Just like Tarkin and his ilk in the old days - too concerned with appearing powerful and intimidating. Did they think her heart quickened at the sight of so many Stormtroopers, that she would emerge meekly from her ship as if in fear of her life? 

If Kylo Ren’s intent was to end her life, the _Jade’s Fire_ would have already been obliterated in a haze of ion cannonfire.

As the ship’s ramp descends with a hiss, Mara sucks in a breath. The air here is sterile and still, but the scent of bleach clings at its edges. Out of the corner of her eye, past the formation of troopers and the officers sent to welcome her, she spots a repair droid (MSE-6, she suspects, and almost rolls her eyes at yet another echo of the old Empire in this place) buzzing back and forth over a patch of floor stained with a dark substance she suspects to be blood…

By the time her feet touch the durasteel floor panel, and she is able to get a close enough look at the officers, she blinks. The younger one - with flaming hair and vitriol in his gaze - earns barely a glance. But his older companion she recognises - his face is burned into her memory, and even three decades cannot disguise it - nor, it seems, quell the odiousness she feels in his presence. 

“Enric Pryde!” Mara announces in a falsely cheery tone. “Of all the Star Destroyers in all the galaxy…”

Pryde bows his head - there’s nothing respectful about the gesture, she knows. But old habits die hard even for Imperial relics such as him. When he lifts his gaze to hers, his face is cold as a dead star. “Indeed, it has been far too long, Lady Mara. The galaxy is a very different place to when we last met… Interesting that you still chose to announce yourself as the Emperor’s Hand, isn’t it? Especially given how eager you were to wash away your involvement with the Empire,” He adds pointedly.

Perhaps he expects her to crumble, or blush, or show any sign of discomfort. Instead, she smirks. “Well, introducing myself as ‘former Hand of the long dead Emperor’ might have lacked gravitas,” she retorts, pleased to see that _she_ had been the one to coax a flinch out of _him_. 

The ginger-haired irritant at Pryde’s side clears his throat. “General Armitage Hux,” he announces in a reedy voice. 

He is younger than she expected; hiding behind an air of importance and pomposity that may have impressed his peers, but does not faze Mara. 

“Ah, General Hugs! My goodness, aren’t you the ambitious little thing to be a General at your age!” Before she can relish in the puce colour filling his features, and the vein pulsing at his temple, Mara continues. “I must confess, I was hoping to see your Supreme Leader here to greet me…”

“Supreme Leader Ren will see you momentarily,” Pryde says in a clipped tone. "We shall escort you to his throne room," he sweeps a hand in the direction of the hangar door. "This way, Lady Jade."

Mara frowns. Though she had left her lightsaber with Rey, and her blaster and vibroblades aboard the _Jade's Fire_ , she had at least anticipated a customary search before being brought before the Supreme Leader. Either this was an oversight of Galactic proportions… or they simply didn't care if she had come with the intent of assassination. 

From the scowl that had crept on the young General's face at her mention of Kylo Ren (coupled with the ambitions to clambour up the ranks of the First Order and become a General despite his tender years), Mara has a gnawing suspicion that he would be delighted indeed if she were to end the Supreme Leader… and would like by vying for the throne before the corpse had gotten cold.

And if his attitude was representative of the zeitgeist here in the First Order… a frisson of fear rang in her body.

_What have you gotten yourself into, Ben Solo?_

* * *

The _Finalizer's_ throne room is almost cavernous in its vastness. In a Star Destroyer where every inch of space must be used to maximal efficiency, this room is excessive to the point of absurdity. All for one (currently unoccupied) throne upon a dais in the centre of the room.

Well, Snoke always did like to make a statement. 

But all other thoughts evaporate when her eyes fall upon the lone figure standing by the room's viewport.

He's tall. It shouldn't shock her - after all, ten year old boys eventually grow into men. And the long decades had moulded him into a giant of man - one who had towered above Rey in that brief glimpse of them Mara had seen on Lah'mu. A man capable of the darkest and most unnatural of deeds.

But a man nonetheless.

Weariness seeps into her bones, the sharp thorns of regret digging into her heart. She ignores Pryde's droning voice as he announces her, too focused on searching Ben Solo's features for any trace of the little boy she had once held in her heart - a boy with a dimpled smile and eyes that seemed at once too ancient for his youthful face.

She sees Leia in his proud, almost aristocratic bearing. She sees Han in his jawline, clenched as he tries to mask his emotions. But those eyes are at once too expressive and somehow empty; his Force signature is a thorny knot of emotions which ripple in Mara's own soul.

Wordlessly, he crosses the room until he reaches the throne at it's centre. Even with his huge strides, it takes at least a minute - there is something languid in his movements, as though trying to mask his inner turmoil with the confident facade of a strong leader. His black cloak billows behind him. Perhaps to others it might evoke the spectre of Vader; but to Mara, that gait is all Han.

Once he is seated at his throne, he dismisses Pryde with a wave. The Allegiant General gives a salute before scurrying away.

And then, Mara finds herself alone with the most dangerous man in the galaxy.

* * *

_Mara Jade… Mara Jade…_

A name he had not heard in years - perhaps decades? - now booms in his mind. And with, images emerge from the dust of his memories. Not just those dreams of the Jedi Archive and the red-haired woman who had bought him spiced cakes (although truthfully, Kylo had grown to assume that these were not so much memories as the Force trying to guide to the abandoned Library, and to Rey). But suddenly the name is in the fingerprints of his childhood. Her laughing and joking with Skywalker, one of her hands upon his thigh whilst his is snaked around her waist… Her teaching him to skim stones with the Force, and Skywalker rolling his eyes and bemoaning such as trivial use of their power… Her regaling him with stories of dangerous adventures whilst his mother and Skywalker try to rapidly change the subject.

Yet, as suddenly as she had appeared in his life… she had vanished like smoke on a breeze. He also recalled the sting of her absence; evidently young Ben Solo had buried the hurt, and with it, all memories of her.

Although, from her little pronouncement and demand for an audience, it seemed that once again his family had not been entirely honest about her connection to the Dark Side…

Mitaka had, with his usual efficiency, put together a short report on this Mara Jade. 

It had certainly confirmed her claim of being the former Emperor’s Hand… A clever manipulator and skilled assassin, who had been imprisoned by Imperial forces in the aftermath of Endor. She had escaped, and vanished for several years - as did any Imperial officers and representatives of the burgeoning First Order who had sought her out. Until, around five years later - and Kylo’s heart gave an unpleasant lurch - she had shown up on the arm of Luke Skywalker, rumoured to be his _lover_. 

The rest of the report he only skimmed, too consumed with the notion that his pious, _eunuch_ uncle had once had a lover - especially one whose past was as murky as this Mara Jade’s.

He pushes the datapad aside as the throne room door hisses open. Pryde and Hux enter, flanking a dreadfully familiar figure.

The years have been kind to her - Kylo estimates she must be around 50 years old, but few wrinkles mar her face. Her hair remains as vibrant as ever, the colour of an exploding supernova, but under the harsh light he notes the streaks of grey interwoven with red. Her garb is entirely black - including her worn leather jacket that reminds him too much of a certain smuggler whose memory burns like acid in his chest - apart from a silver scarf woven around her neck.

Pryde drones on as Kylo regards this Mara Jade, looking for traces of the woman he had once loved as an aunt.

And, once the two irritant generals depart, and they are alone, Kylo strides to his throne and tries to look impressive even if the small boy in his heart gives a plaintive cry. 

“A bold move, to come here and demand an audience with the Supreme Leader,” he says, fingers resting lazily on the armrests of the throne.

“Supreme Leader?” Mara Jade says - her voice harsher than in his memory - and quirks her eyebrows. “Gotta admit, I much preferred it when we called you Little Starfighter.”

Kylo’s stomach twists with mingled hurt, anger, embarrassment and shame. His gaze positively _burns_. “To what do I owe this… visit? It isn’t every day that a former Hand of the Emperor comes knocking at the hull of the _Finalizer._ Have you still lost the appetite for killing, Mara Jade? Or do I have to prepare myself for a fight? I warn you,” he says, regaining some of that arrogance and bravado, “That I haven’t enjoyed a good duel in quite some time…”

He had hoped to unnerve her. Instead, he watches her lips quirk into an easy smile. “Your sources are correct, _Supreme Leader_. I did lose the taste for killing, quite some time ago. But I haven’t lost any of my skills.” She folds her arms over her chest. “Would it relax you to know that I came here with zero intention of killing or maiming you? I don’t even have my lightsaber on me,” she gestures to her waist, and he notes an empty hook upon her belt. “A bit conspicuous to be wielding one, especially when the stories of the Jedi Killer are still so fresh. You know, Ben,” he cringes at the sound of that name, “I’ve known who Kylo Ren was for a very long time. Oh, don’t worry,” she raises a hand, “The Skywalker-Organa-Solos didn’t exactly advertise it. I’d never known another Force user quite as talented as yourself; let alone one quite as hulking and tall as yourself.” 

Silence falls as Kylo struggles to process her words. Mara shifts her weight onto one of her legs, and lets her eyes rove over him. He feels the tips of his ears start to redden after a few minutes of her silent regard. She was not using the Force – he would sense it even if she were only attempting to skim the surface of his mind. No, this was something else. As though she were peeling endless layers off him, peering behind rage, disquiet, hurt, sadness… He feels _naked._

“I’ve spent most of the last twenty years avoiding regrets,” she says, and he starts as her gaze turns soft. “But I wish… I wish I had been in your life more – maybe I might have picked up on Snoke’s festering voice in your head a long time ago. Can you forgive me, Ben?”

He blinks. She was asking for… forgiveness?

“Don’t look so surprised. I know what it’s like to have a master’s voice constantly echoing in your mind; to not even have the privacy of your own thoughts. It’s the worst kind of prison – and believe me, I’ve been in enough of those as well to consider myself an expert in the matter.”

His lips feel suddenly dry; his vocal chords stiff as he fights to speak. Heat rises in his face, and his gloved fists ball in his lip. From the subtle shift of her eyes, he knows Jade has spotted the movement, caught the flickers of his barely concealed rage. But damn it, she looks almost _amused!_ Her eyes sparkle, and he notices that she has uncrossed her arms 

Even without her saber, Mara Jade’s skills as an assassin had been legendary. 

Even weaponless, she would not be an easy kill.

“Perhaps we can sidestep the reminiscing,” Kylo drawls, leaning forward on his throne, one hand reaching lazily for his saber, “And you can tell me exactly why you are here?” 

“You always were a curious little child,” Mara says, and he feels a growing discomfort. “A fact for which I am particularly grateful, as I suspect it is the sole reason you haven’t lashed out at me.”

“Yet.”

“Yet. I meant what I said, Ben.” She drops to her knees, head bent. But her posture remains tense, like a loth-cat ready to spring if attacked. “I’m sorry. And I suspect that those aren’t words you’ve heard before. Or at least, until it was too late.”

He wants to scream, to lash out, to grab her with the Force and choke the life from her, to run his lightsaber through her, knock that arrogant head from her body and send it to the Resistance, heck, to anyone just to make an example. He wants to battle her, best her in combat and watch the light leave her eyes.

Instead, what tears from him is a sob. 

To her credit, Jade maintains her supplicant position. He half-expects her to rush to him, bundle him into her arms like some pathetic child, and murmur words of comfort, of apology. 

Part of him wants her to do it anyway. 

When his tears have ebbed away, he looks at her through glassy eyes. She lifts her gaze, and gone is that narrow, remote arrogance he recognises in himself. Her face is open, her eyes soft, and almost… loving. He shakes his head forcefully, one last tear clinging to his cheek. 

She rises to her feet once more , rubbing her knees to remove non-existent dust. It was a means of giving him a moment to compose himself – and if his emotions weren’t so raw and near the surface, he might actually be grateful.

“Anyway, where are your manners? Nearly an hour I’ve been here, and I’ve yet to be offered a drink or a bite to eat. Surely the Supreme Leader of the First Order has access to a decent drink’s cabinet? I haven’t had a proper brandy in _months_. Your little game of Galactic conquest has been hell on trade routes.”

That surprises a laugh out of him. “You came unarmed to the First Order’s flagship for dinner and brandy?”

She chuckles in response. “No, I came because I’ve been a dreadfully neglectful aunt and maybe it was time to remedy that. Besides, you aren’t exactly the most accessible person in the galaxy!”

* * *

For the almost mythical reputation Kylo Ren has acquired, his office is almost utilitarian. No personal effects, no holoimages or even furniture beyond his desk and two chairs. Even Sidious had furnished his office with bookshelves and gaudy ornaments - and Mara could easily picture the sort of over-the-top opulence Snoke would have elected for in the days he occupied the Supreme Leader’s office.

A servitor droid appears, bearing a bottle of Savareen brandy older than even Mara herself, and a tray laden with bowls of steaming borth, plates of Haouron bread and some sliced cheeses. Finer fare, no doubt, than the Stormtroopers would dine on, but far too simple a meal for the most powerful figure in the galaxy. Mara might wonder if there was an insult to be had in serving her such a modest meal, but she detects no guile from Ben.

He clearly is unused to sharing his mealtimes with another. Conversation is virtually non-existent, aside from his polite enquiry to ensure she is enjoying the food. Twenty years absence will not be solved over one dinner, or a single conversation. The wounds of time are too raw upon them both, and Mara is grateful at least that he does not ask what kept her away - for now, at least. That discussion will need to be voiced, and soon…

Once their bellies are full, and the crockery swept away by the droid, and their brandy glasses refilled, Ben leans forward. “Why are you really here, Mara?”

She takes a slow sip of her drink before answering. “Trying to reconcile the little boy I once knew with the Supreme Leader,” she says honestly, watching him stiffen and something flash in his gaze. Before he can speak she continues, “Do you remember when Luke-” he hisses at the name, “And I brought you with us, to see the Jedi Archives?”

“And you bought me cakes,” Ben says with a nod. “I remember - I actually had cause to revisit that place recently.”

And _that_ piques Mara’s interest. “Oh?”

He nods, his eyes glazed with memories that he does not share, but seem somewhat too intimate… “It was actually the first place I visited when we arrived in the system.”

He had been in the Archives… Almost certainly at the same time that _Rey_ had been there. Remembered fear clenches around Mara's heart, even though she knows Rey came to no harm from that interaction; that she and Ben have interacted since then, with far too much intimacy and gentleness for enemies in a brutal conflict… 

Mara's curiosity demands satisfaction… But she merely adds this to the already long list of questions she has for Rey when she returns to Ajan Kloss. 

“And what did you find there?” She asks, lifting the glass to her lips in a slow, contemplative sip.

“Exactly what I expected,” Ben says, unable to hide the trace of bitterness that leeches into his tone. “Dust and broken relics of a failed religion.” His voice hardens. “Rather fitting that Skywalker decided to make an appearance too.”

Mara splutters, feeling the burn of alcohol in her throat and nose. “You saw Skywalker?” she rasps.

He nods, spite etched onto his features. It’s a look that doesn’t suit him. “I can’t believe that my fanatical uncle was once in love with you,” he says quietly. But Mara knows there is more to the comment than an attempt to reconcile Luke Skywalker’s love life with Jedi teachings. 

“Hate and love are powerful emotions,” she says, trying to silence the Force damned _jealousy_ seething in her soul at the knowledge that Luke was intent on materialising to every soul in the galaxy bar her. “Sometimes, one can grow into the other. Even amongst enemies, a connection can form between souls until all bitterness is washed away, and only love remains."

"And that… happened between you and Skywalker?" The sheer earnestness and longing in those words hangs in the air. As does the hope sparkling in his eyes.

She nods, her vision hazy with tears. "It did… eventually. Plus, it helped when I stopped having to endure Sidious’ voice murmuring bile in my head, corrupting my thoughts.” She shakes her head. “But like I said… powerful emotions can cross over, become confused. Enemies can fall in love…" She sucks in a harsh breath, feels the Force gather round her in a calming caress. "And little boys can grow up to kill their beloved fathers."

Kylo Ren's rage had been a legendary thing; but when her words land, and the Force pulses with raw emotion, it is not the brewing anger which knocks the breath from her lungs, but sheer, festering agony and regret. The room itself seems to vibrate. Ice in his empty glass shudders against the sides, before the entire thing shatters.

Mara knows that she has marched into a Rathar's den - unarmed save for her wits - and prodded the beast. But, though his lightsaber hangs clipped to his belt, there is no flash of red, no final regret before her life is snuffed out. 

Instead, a lone tear falls, clinging to his cheek in it's descent. But from the pain reverberating from him, he could cry enough to fill the oceans of Mon Cala ten times over and still have more tears to spare.

He draws in a ragged breath, but there is neither comfort nor composure to be found in its inhalation. His lips quiver. The Supreme Leader is _crying_. 

"I thought if you were going to give me Hell for anything," he says in a tear choked voice, "It would be for Skywalker."

A soft _ha_ falls from Mara's lips, and she brushes a knuckle against her cheek to wipe away the evidence of her own sorrow. Even if the Supreme Leader can cry, it would not be fitting for the Emperor's Hand to do so. "That was self-sacrifice, Ben, not murder. Luke spent too much time tied up in the Skywalker legacy and the heroism of the Jedi. He went as he was supposed to - in a blaze of glory, the hero he wanted to be." She watches Ben stare at her quizzically. "He reached out to me via the Force at the end - he was at peace. So no, I am not here to give you Hell on his behalf. It sounds like he's doing a pretty good job of it on his own." Mara shakes her head. "But you did kill your father," she points out, trying to keep recrimination from her tone. "Why?"

Ben stands suddenly, and marches to the viewport of his office. When he speaks, his voice is soft and agonized, his words directed at the galaxy rather than Mara. 

"Does it matter the reason? Han Solo-" his voice cracks on the name, "Died by my hand." He leans forward, his forehead and a gloved hand pressed against the transparisteel of the viewport. His body trembles with grief, and even the furniture gives a shudder. 

Mara sighs. "Look, your father was imperfect… but he was my friend. It matters to _me._ And I'm certain that it matters to your mother as well."

Ben's hunched posture suddenly snaps upright at the mention of Leia. "Ask me what you really want to know," he says in a hollow voice at odds with the emotional maelstrom consuming him.

"Fine, I will." Mara sucks in a breath, arms folded across her chest. "Did Snoke make you kill your father?" Perhaps it had not been the most diplomatic way of asking the question… but the Dark was always a snarling beast within her chest, lying dormant until her anger was kindled.

"No."

It's the answer she had feared. But, before Mara can push him, demand answers, Ben speaks again.

"It was supposed to make me strong."

And sudden clarity hits her, as forcefully as a blaster bolt to the chest. "You did it to appease the Dark."

Ben turns to face her, shakes his head. "I did it to quash the Light within me."

Mara nods sagely. "Look, I'm no paragon of virtue and goodness, Ben. I have done some vicious, _brutal_ things in the name of Sidious and his cause." She runs a hand through her hair, lets her nails scratch her scalp to the point of pain. A foul habit from her past, but one that the years have never fully allowed her to shed. "And some of them - kriff, _most_ of them - made me feel powerful. Special." She sighs. "The Dark is good at that - seducing you to it's cause, trying to silence doubt… but doubt doesn't make you weak. It means you're strong; stronger than I think you realise."

A sinister laugh escapes him. Mara feels it pierce her soul. "I didn't realise you were a Jedi convert," he says, and his eyes _burn._

"Don't be naive, Solo," Mara snorts. "You think the Force is either Sith or Jedi? It's time you stopped listening to dead Masters, kid."

A muscle in his jaw tightens, and he lunges forward, his hands on the arm of Mara's chair, trapping her. His breath is heavy with brandy, and flecks of spit collide with her cheek as he speaks. "And what would you have me do, Mara Jade? Abandon the First Order and go crying back to Leia Organa?" But the fury on his face immediately melts to something approximating fear. "Tell me… If I were to walk away, whom do you think would replace me?"

Mara wipes away his saliva, and fixes him with a stern gaze. "Well, I might only have been here five minutes, but it's bloody obvious that your General Hux is ravenously ambitious. I hope you're watching your back around him."

"Believe me, I am," Ben says, and removes his hands from the armrests. "And the minute I let my guard down…" he closes his eyes. "How long do you think the Resistance will last with him in charge?" 

"You still care about Leia."

Ben nods; his throat bobs in a nervous swallow. "I know that she will never accept me, that she will always hate me for what I did to Han-" Again, that hitch in his voice, the inability to use the words Mom and Dad. "But I don't want my mother to die." 

"You're wrong about Leia," Mara says. "All any parent wants is for their child to come home."

"Are you a mother?" He asks softly.

Mara shakes her head. "I wasn't entirely sure if I wanted children or not… Well, biology has ruled that out as an option now. Be glad you're a man, kid. Aside from hair loss, aging isn't as drastic for you." Ben huffs a laugh even as he squirms. "Why do you ask? Would you have liked a cousin?"

That gives him pause. "Another Skywalker would just have offered Snoke a choice of targets instead of simply relying on me." He shakes his head. "That bloodline is tainted… But," he sighs. "I suppose it might have been nice to have a peer. A friend. Tell me, Mara," he says as the longing in his voice hardens. "Would you have told your children the truth about their grandfather?"

"That he was Darth Vader? Of course I would!" She says firmly. "But remember - Vader turned at the end. He may have been a monster - I may have been a monster too, once - but at the end, he turned away from the Dark." The question puzzles her, and suddenly her stomach sinks. "They never told you?" She breaths, not bothering to hide the incredulity in her tone.

Ben nods, his voice hard as flint when he tells her, "No. I found out the same time as the rest of the galaxy. And do you know what my mother's response to that little revelation was? She wrote me a damn letter!" He slams his fist on the desk; had any more force been used, he would likely have broken his knuckles.

Mara hisses a breath. "I'm sorry, Ben. But… what I said still stands, you know. A parent's love is unconditional. As is their forgiveness." And she reaches up to caress his cheek. A hint of stubble grazes her palm, but the eyes and expression is not that of some fearsome tyrant, but a lost and lonely little boy starving for love. He leans into her touch… how long since gentle hands have held him, nourished him with kindness rather than the detachment of the Jedi or the punishing brutality of the Sith?

In this moment, Ben reminds her so eerily of Rey… and she understands what had drawn them together. Two broken souls trying to put one another back together.

Ben fails to stifle a sob. "I don't know if I can believe you… but even if she could, even if I could guarantee her safety and go to her… what about the rest of the galaxy? I doubt they would be so forgiving."

His words hang in the silence for a few moments, before Mara swallows the lump in her throat. “I've been around a long time, Ben. I've seen a lot, and I think I can speak with some authority on the matter.” She stands, and begins to pace around the office. “People love stories of redemption, of the lost and forgotten nerf returning to the fold. Sins forgiven, blood washed away – that is, unless the blood was of their loved one. Then, you can scrub and scrub until your skin is raw; sacrifice and atone until you have nothing more to give, but in their eyes, you will never be clean. You might as well be drowning in blood.” She pauses. “The First Order has much blood on its hands… Hosnian Prime, for example.” She turns a shrewd eye to him. “Now, correct me if I'm wrong - which, by the way, I rarely am - but I think that was before your time?" Ben nods, his Force signature rippling with guilt. “Answer me this, kid - you got any atrocities planned?"

He huffs a laugh. "Nothing imminent, Aunt Mara."

"Good," she says with a slight smirk. "First thing to remember on the path to change is to stop making the same mistakes. Face forwards, but don't forget to look backwards, if only to remind yourself how far you've come."

"I'll keep that in mind," Ben replies, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. "But I won't be going running to the Resistance any time soon."

"You know, as preposterous as this sounds…" Mara says, shaking her head slightly, "I would actually feel safer with you at the helm of the First Order."

“You know, the First Order might have a place for someone of your... calibre,” he says. 

Mara wants to laugh; the notion of working for these Imperial wannabes is absurd… and yet, working within the First Order might offer her the chance to actually _do_ _something_. She had turned to Leia because she could no longer sit idly by and watch the galaxy be decimated in another brutal conflict… and thus far, all she has achieved is ferrying Rey from planet to planet on a kyber crystal quest, and nearly dying collecting Haidera serum for one arrogant flyboy to risk his life. 

But the idea of embedding herself back in the systems and ideology she had fought so hard to distance herself from - even for the purpose of sabotaging men like Pryde with his Imperial nostalgia, and Hux with his bold and bloody ambition - rankles. So she shakes her head. “Gonna politely decline, Supreme Leader. I’ve had my fill of military organisations; freelancing suits me more.”

Ben's disappointment is tangible; but he quickly throws up the mask of the impassive Supreme Leader. "As you wish, Mara. But I will keep the offer open should petty crime lose it's attraction." He tilts his head. "And I would not be sorry if, on your travels, we should happen to meet again."

That elicits a smile from Mara. “Oh, I fully intend on it, Supreme Leader,” she says sincerely. “I wasn’t there as often as I ought to have been when you were growing up. But history has shown I'm capable of change, and I'd like to rectify that error."

He seems to contemplate her declaration before frowning. "Honestly, I doubt anything would have changed. I was always destined to be a disappointment to the Skywalker legacy - or perhaps, a more honest embodiment of it. But I will never object to a visit from you, Aunt Mara."

* * *

The hour is late, weariness seeping into Pryde's bones and even several servings of his favoured potent caf doing little to stimulate him, when he receives a communique from Hux to inform him that Mara Jade has departed the _Finalizer_. Regrettably, having left Ren alive and unharmed. And, worryingly, having parted almost cordially - the Supreme Leader himself had walked her to the hangar bay and waved off that ridiculous vessel of hers as it departed. 

Pryde grimaces. Jade’s allegiance evidently lay with Ren. Even without her constant presence in the Order, she would prove a valuable ally to the Supreme Leader… and a dangerous enemy to those who would commit treason against him. Plans, therefore, would have to be accelerated before Ren or Jade got too comfortable…

With that thought, he turns to the young female officer sitting patiently on the other side of the desk. 

Trust was a rarely earned commodity to Enric Pryde; he had watched enough of his peers surrender to the New Republic as the Empire crumbled around them, and sell out their fellows for a few measly years off their sentences. Had they expended even a fraction of that effort in preserving the Imperial forces and supporting the burgeoning First Order… 

He shakes his head. No use fighting ancient battles in his mind. Most of those Imperial traitors were dead. And now, he has a malleable - if intransigent - young General at his behest, one he can mould into a more fitting Supreme Leader. The only matter that remains is to eliminate Ren and now Jade as well.

Pryde clears his throat, and addresses the woman in front of him. "Officer Kanida, I have a mission of great importance for you. Discretion is paramount. Ready your team - no more than five including the pilot, and only those in whom who have absolute and unwavering trust. Tomorrow morning, you will depart for Myrkr."

Kanida bows her head. "Reconnaissance, Allegiant General?"

An eerie smile fills his features. "Retrieval, Officer Kanida. Of a highly valuable commodity, upon which the very future of the First Order may depend."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next... Mara confronts Rey. Meanwhile, our Space Idiots come closer to an understanding...


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Force is apparently also a fan of the "only one bed trope". Rey's dreams hint at desires she isn't willing to acknowledge. Oh, and then there are the tiny matters of a lightsaber to be built, and a friendly chat with Mara on the subject of a certain Supreme Leader...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all!
> 
> Thank you for the lovely comments on the last chapter. It's now time for the other half of our dyad to face an Auntie Mara interrogation...
> 
> Many thanks to Rey_Lo for her unfailing advice and support; and to the lovely writers in The Workshop Discord group for their input and assistance.
> 
> Content warning: Dream children/babies; nightmares

That first night back on Ajan Kloss, Rey dreams of Ben Solo. But _now_ , her dreams are of a very different flavour. 

She imagines them in her bunk on the _Falcon_ , nothing but air between their bodies. His mouth is on hers; ravenous. Devouring. Long fingers tease her nipples, her moans swallowed in his bruising kiss. 

His eyes _burn_ as his hands and lips trail lower, relentless in their claim of her body… He murmurs endearments against sweat-soaked skin; brands her with delicious bruises in the shape of his lips; tastes the arousal between her legs. He merges their bodies, moves within her, until all Rey can see and smell and taste and _feel_ is him. 

She gasps into the darkness, her skin flushed with more than just the sticky heat of the jungle… These past nights have been so warm, she and her bunkmates had striped down to their basics for sleep. Now, the blanket scratches her exposed and overheated skin.

Perhaps she could relieve the ache between her thighs by touching herself. After all, her bunkmates are fast asleep. She could be quiet, could stifle her lustful cries behind a hand or a pillow. But the idea that _Ben_ might manifest whilst she is pleasuring herself - to a _fantasy_ of him! - stills her hand.

The next morning Rey is tired - and perhaps a touch irritable, she is willing to concede - but she intends on an early night once dinner is over to recoup her lost sleep. 

But the dream recurs on the second night; much more vivid. Rey can almost feel the heat of his breath as he nuzzles the crook of her neck, the unbearable softness of his hair, the press of his muscles against her, like durasteel swathed in silk…

And as she shudders into wakefulness, the reason for such a disconcertingly lifelike dream becomes apparent. 

She is lying sprawled on Ben's - mercifully clothed! - chest, with her bare arms entangled with his. Panic rises in her, soothed only by the sound of a soft snore coming from him. Rey's gaze snaps to his face.

His head is turned to the right, his scar buried in the pillow. Dark lashes contrast with his pale cheeks, and those full, _plush_ lips - lips that had done deliciously sinful things to her body in her dream - are parted. 

Rey's groan echoes into the darkness; but both Ben and her bunkmates are undisturbed by it. She swings her legs out of bed, and pulls on a shirt with excessive force. Her eyelids feel heavy, her limbs weary. An ache builds between her thighs; she presses them together in the futile hope of stifling it.

On Jakku, she had not been entirely ignorant of sex. Privacy was rare in the scavenger camp, and she had overheard plenty of copulating couples over the years before settling in the AT-AT out in the desert. She knew of pleasure houses and holoporn; she knew that it could be forced upon a woman or man against their will; she knew men jeered and bragged of it, whilst women shared equally explicit tales but in more hushed tones. 

But it had never interested _her._ That Rey, eking out a meagre existence, had been trapped in perpetual girlhood, waiting for parents who had thrown her away as scrap. That knowledge - cruelly delivered though it was - had been the impetus for her to emerge into womanhood. She supposed awakening dormant sexual desires was simply a consequence of this. 

She casts a glimpse back to the sleeping form of the Supreme Leader - in her bed - before bursting into a sprint.

_We both want it. Want each other._

His words the last time they had spoken had touched a nerve. Passionate dreams were one thing… but to _want_ and _welcome_ Ben's touch was dangerous…

Fatigue catches up with her. She halts before a broadleaf tree, its bark rough against her back. She sinks to the ground and buries her face between her knees before sighing.

In the Archives, he had brushed a kiss to her brow; and how fervently she had wished for his lip to trail lower to capture her own. But would it have stopped there, she wonders? Would he have tugged at the fastenings of her damaged shirt, bared her breasts to his ravenous gaze? Would he have lain with her amongst the toppled bookshelves, put his cock inside her, touched and kissed her until she cried out his name on a cloud of euphoria? 

Rey presses the heels of her hands against her eyes, as if to purge the fantasy.

 _He's the Supreme Leader,_ she tells herself, as that incessant throbbing between her thighs becomes unbearable. _He might care for you, and might_ **_desire_ ** _you… but he would have blown Chewie and the_ **_Falcon_ ** _out of the sky without regret._

By the time she returns to her tent, the sky is stained purple with the dawn, and her bed is once again empty. A few black hairs litter her pillow; she brushes them away without ceremony. The bedsheets are cool as she slides beneath them and grapples for just an hour's undisturbed rest before breakfast.

Wanting Ben Solo is terrifying. But the dream which truly scares her comes on the third night…

* * *

Her eyes open not to the grimy, battered interior of the _Millennium_ _Falcon_ , but a lush, green landscape. The air is heavily perfumed, ribbons of sunlight filtering through the trees. A song teases at her ear - low and gentle. Though she cannot decipher the words, the melody is soothing, like a balm over her heart.

She follows the sound.

Her feet carry her deeper into the forest, until she stumbles upon a clearing. There's a small cabin at its heart, a flowering moss creeping up the walls and blossoms of every hue and colour in the garden. The voice grows louder, loud enough that she can discern the words. 

_"Mirrorbright, shines the moon, its glow as soft as an ember. When the moon is mirrorbright, take this time to remember."_

Rey's hand hovers over the door panel. Instinctively, her fingers know the code, and the door opens with a puff of air. 

The breath stills in her chest as she regards the sight before her. 

Given his constant presence in her dreams of late, she isn't surprised to see Ben Solo sitting there in the lounge. He is shirtless, his muscles glistening like marble in the low afternoon sun. In his arms, he cradles a bundle - a squirming, cooing bundle with a shock of dark hair - as he croons softly.

_"Those you have loved but are gone; those who kept you so safe and warm. The mirrorbright moon lets you see those who have ceased to be."_

Longing and fear claw at her heart. He is singing to a baby. _Their_ baby. 

_"Mirrorbright shines the moon, as fires die to their embers. Those you loved are with you still; the moon will help you remember."_

His voice trails off and he presses a feather-light kiss to the baby's head. The joyous burble he receives in return sears itself onto Rey's very soul. She gasps, and rubs a hand against her chest as a different ache fills her… 

Ben's eyes snap to hers, and she gasps once more at the sheer _adoration_ sparkling in them.

The intensity of that gaze shocks her to wakefulness, a sob tearing from her throat. Her pillow is already damp with tears.

With mounting horror, she realises that she is not alone in her bed; even worse, her unwelcome bedfellow is also awake. 

"Rey?" He murmurs, blinking slowly. His body is pressed so close to hers; and mortification grips her as she remembers exactly how little she is currently wearing. 

Mercifully, Ben is clad in a shirt and loose-fitting trousers whose buttery soft material brushes against her bare legs. She wriggles away, only to find herself teetering on the edge of the bed. 

"You're crying," Ben says. He reaches as if to brush away her tears; but she jerks away. At least, as much as she can without tumbling to the ground.

"Can you move?" Rey says through clenched teeth.

He arches an eyebrow at her. "My back is already against the wall. The only direction to move is… towards you."

Even in the darkness, she can see the blush staining his cheeks. Feel the heat of his embarrassment radiate through her own body as well as through their bond. 

"Kriff," Rey mutters, screwing her eyes closed even through her tears. With a hiss of breath, she throws up every mental barrier than she can. She imagines the hatch of her old AT-AT, bolted against the might and fury of _X'us'R'iia_. If she could seal herself against the brutality of a sandstorm, she can surely protect her thoughts from Ben Solo.

 _Especially_ the contents of this latest dream, which have left her so profoundly rattled. She presses the heel of her hands to her eyes, but a small cry escapes her. Despite the shielding in place, she feels it pang in Ben's soul. But she won't open her eyes; the last thing she wants is to see the empathy his force signature is currently winding around her own… 

"Rey…?" Rose's sleep-roughened voice fills the tent; quiet, but somehow as loud as an explosion.

"I'm fine, Rose!" Rey says hastily, her heart thundering beneath her breast as she prays that Rose - and Kaydel and Jannah, for that matter - do not have some latent or hitherto unknown Force sensitivity… "Just a bad dream! Go back to sleep."

"Okay," comes the reply, and she hears Rose turn over in bed, and almost immediately the soft sound of her snores fill the air.

When Rey opens her eyes, Ben s regarding her quizzically. "Who's Rose?" 

Rey cringes at the volume of his voice. Before she realises, she has clasped a hand to his mouth to silence him. Both of their eyes widen at the intimacy of the act. She places a finger to her own lips. In response, he gives the tiniest nod; but she still hesitates before dropping her hand. 

This time, when his fingers reach to brush away the lingering dampness that clings to her cheek, she is too weary to protest. 

He leans close, but does not press their bodies together. His breath is hot against her ear as he whispers, "Unless this Rose - or anyone else around you, for that matter - is Force sensitive, they won't perceive me." There's an undercurrent of bitterness in his tone. "No one needs to know the Force has bonded you to a monster."'

Rey's lips part; but before she can offer a rebuke, the bond dissolves. Her resolve crumbles, and she buries her face in a pillow that smells like him, muffling her sobs as she mourns for a future that can never exist except in dreams. 

* * *

"Are you all right, Rey?" Rose asks her after breakfast, as they make their way to the hangar. 

“I’m fine,” she says with a weak smile. Sweat clings to her neck, and she rubs at it with a little more vigour than is necessary. 

Unsurprisingly, Rose arches an eyebrow skeptically. “Did I just imagine it, or were you crying last night?” 

A ragged sigh escapes Rey. She nods, and gives an apologetic shrug. “Sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you.”

“Kriff Rey, I don't care about _that_ !” Rose says, gripping her friend’s hand. “You haven’t been sleeping well since you got back - and don’t think I didn’t hear you sneak out the other night, by the way.” Her tone softens. “I'm worried about you. You look _exhausted._ Even BeeBeeAte noticed it!”

A foreign emotion bubbles in Rey's chest. Her throat feels tight, and she swallows against the lump forming there. The idea of being cared for - _wanted_ \- was for so long anathema to her. She had been a _nobody_ , a scavenger - yet, Finn (and Han and Chewie) had flown to the heart of a First Order stronghold to rescue _her._ Back on Jakku, she could only depend on herself. Had she plummeted to her death clamouring in the wreckage of a Star Destroyer, or sickened with any of the diseases which ran rampant in the scavenger camp, or starved alone in her AT-AT, she doubted a tear would have shed over her passing - assuming anyone even noticed, of course. Water was scarce enough on Jakku; tears were a waste.

Rey shakes her head. Self pity was not in her nature - it had not helped her survive in the past and would not aid her now. When her lips curl into a smile, she hopes it is more heartfelt. “I've been having some bad dreams, that's all.”

Although Rose nods, and gives an earnest offer of listening if Rey wishes to confide in her, she tactfully changes the subject to the latest scuttlebutt on base - namely Kaydel and Jannah's burgeoning closeness. But doubt still lingers in the half-frown upon her lips and the all-too-knowing gleam in her eyes.

When they arrive at the hangar - after murmuring a brief hello to Poe as he wanders between their tiny fleet of X-Wings, and a more enthusiastic greeting to BB-8 toddling behind - they settle at a workbench at the back. It’s by far the coolest spot in the structure - which says little, as sweat clings to their skin and stains their clothes even at this early hour. 

Brand new X-Wings - especially ones that have yet to taste combat - have little need of intense maintenance. There are only so many times one can check the fuel lines or make minor adjustments to the engine. Even Poe’s slightly dented ship has been long restored. (The _Falcon_ , of course, would certainly benefit some ongoing maintenance from another skilled and patient mechanic, but Chewie was loath to allow anyone other than himself and Rey to tackle it’s seemingly endless list of malfunctions and faults. Sometimes, Rey marveled that it ever took flight in the first place that day on Jakku.) So, for the third day running, both women sit in the meagre shade and pour over the shattered pieces of Luke Skywalker's lightsaber.

 _This would be easier if Mara was here_ , Rey thinks with a trace of bitterness. 

The morning after their return from Lah'mu, her new kyber crystals tucked safely in her satchel, Rey had been ready to begin construction on a new lightsaber. A lightsaber untainted by either history or legacy. But, as she headed to the mess tent for breakfast, she noted a conspicuous absence on the base. The _Jade's Fire_ \- and it's flame-haired captain - were nowhere to be found.

General Leia had been quick to assuage Rey's fears - or attempt to, at least. Mara was on a “delicate and urgent mission,” the General had said, even as her Force signature was threaded with uncertainty. Once again there was more to Mara's absence than anyone save the smuggler herself could understand.

Memories of abandonment still fester within Rey; but she reminds herself for the dozenth time that Mara _had_ come back. A standard day late, guilt-stricken and covered in blood, but she had returned nonetheless.

Still, Rey felt that both she and the Resistance could not afford to wait an indeterminate amount of time until Mara eventually returned to Ajan Kloos before starting construction on her lightsaber.

So, for the last three days, Rey and Rose had poured over the _Aionomicum;_ dissected the remnants of the Skywalker saber; and made some rough sketches on a glitchy datapad they had liberated from the _Falcon._

“This is actually a much simpler design than I expected,” Rose remarks as she pokes at the shroud emitter. “In theory, it should be fairly straightforward to build something similar with the materials we've got…” She trails off at the frown on Rey’s lips. “You still want to use both crystals?”

As if in response, the kyber crystals held in her palm begin to hum, imperceptible to anyone but her. “I don't think they would work separately,” Rey says. “I can't explain it - not rationally, at least - but they _need_ to be together.”

The scar on her right bicep tingles beneath the band as she speaks. She elects to ignore it.

Rose nods. “I won't pretend that I understand a lot of this Force stuff-” she says honestly, before Rey cuts in with a laugh

“Me neither. It’s just…”

“Innate?” Rose asks with a smile. Rey merely shrugs in response. “Well, for something you supposedly don’t understand, you've done some awesome stuff through it. You saved our skins on Crait _and_ kicked Kylo Ren’s ass. If the Force tells you to make a saberstaff so that you can do it again…” She grins. “Well, we’ll figure out the logistics of that together.” 

A watery smile is all Rey can muster. The crystals hum a discordant note - one meant for her ears alone - and she remembers what they had whispered to her back in the cave on Lah'mu… Remembers Ben's own words to her… 

_Could you use that saber against me? Use it to maim me again, use it to kill me_?

She’s had opportunities aplenty to do so. In the snow, on an imploding planet. After finding him unconscious and unarmed in the _Supremacy’s_ throne room. And, but a few nights ago, when he had lain asleep in her bed… 

But Rey knows, deep in her marrow, that she will never be able to kill him. Not with a saber, or a blaster, or even her bare hands. Words alone have been her weapon since Coruscant. ( _That, and an ill-placed elbow,_ she thinks with a snigger concealed as a cough.)

This lightsaber will have to be purely symbolic then. A beacon of hope in the darkness and violence of a galaxy at war. 

An unpleasant gnarl begins to form in her gut at the thought.

She and Rose spend the next few hours debating how to modify the design to create a saber staff - alterations to the power core and the energy gate, and how to stabilise the matrix emitter - and Rose meticulously modifies their sketches until both are satisfied.

“We can cannibalize some of the components of the broken saber,” Rose says as they break for a lunch of stale bread and tart berries that Kaydel had dropped off earlier during her own break, “So, the only remaining question is… How to house the components?” 

Rey had been chewing that question too. “Well,” she says slowly, reaching for her quarterstaff where it lies against the wall of the hangar cave. It was the sole piece of her life on Jakku she clung to; her friend in more skirmishes than she cared to count. “What about this?” she asks, passing it to Rose.

Her friend regards the weapon with a critical eye, turning it over in her hands. There's an odd tightening to her mouth, and Rey watches her swallow reflexively. “It's a good weapon,” Rose says after a moment. “Good, solid ore.” She gives a single nod, and Rey catches the gleam of tears in her friend’s eyes. “I think it's perfect.”

There is something oddly poetic about the whole thing, Rey thinks as she watches BB-8 slice into the metal with his saw. She had used the quarterstaff to defend the little astromech against Teedo, and that single action had irrevocably altered the course of her life. Finn, the Falcon, Han and Chewie… Ben… It had all started with BB-8. With every spark that flies and lands in the dirt, she bids Jakku farewell. Memories of the scorching sands and hunger and pain would still scrape through her on occasion; but like with the staff, she would take her knowledge and skills and experience to build something better.

By the time the sky is streaked red with the setting sun, Rey has cleared the workbench of everything but her kyber crystals and the remnants of both the broken Skywalker saber and her own quarterstaff. The Force thrums with purpose. She closes her eyes and allows it to flow through her like a breeze in the trees. 

In her mind’s eye, Rey pictures _her_ lightsaber. Deft fingers move through the air, and she imagines its weight in her palm, pictures herself swinging it through the different forms Mara has been teaching her. The kyber crystals hum with excitement. 

She scarcely hears Rose’s surprised inhale as the components begin to hover above the bench, lining themselves up but not touching. 

The vision shifts, and suddenly there is a young boy before her - one with a steely determination in his gaze, and dark hair that does not cover his ears… 

She watches Ben Solo - no more than ten, she guesses - manipulating the components of his own lightsaber with the Force. The hilt is familiar, yet different to the one he wields now. Gone are the cross guards and his crystal glows not in furious, crackling red but a soft, serene blue. Exhilaration and relief pulse in his Force signature as he reaches out for the finished weapon. At the first touch of it’s cool casing against his hand, his lips curl into a smile so deep his cheeks dimple.

The image is so jarring, Rey loses focus. The components of her lightsaber hit the bench with a dull clatter. 

A frustrated huff escapes Rey; and she starts as soft fingers brush her shoulder. 

Rose withdraws her hand, and a frown tugs at her lips. “Do you want to take a break?” She asks. “It’s almost dinner time, and we’ve been working flat out.” 

“I'm almost there,” Rey says, shaking her head. “One more attempt?” 

Rose leans over and places a gentle kiss to Rey's brow. “All right. But I’ll hold you to that!”

Rey squeezes her hands into a fist so tight that nails dig into her palm. But the pain centres her. She breathes, and focuses her energies once more.

This time, as she closes her eyes, there is no echo of Ben Solo in her mind; just a singular focus. She registers everything about the components - every scratch and speck of dirt and greasy fingerprint, down the individual atoms - as she manipulates them with the Force. 

And soon the whispering melody of her kyber crystals begins to grow in volume, until all any sound - even the clicks and sparks as her nascent saber takes form - but their song is drowned out. 

Perhaps an age passes; perhaps only a minute. Time has no meaning to the ebb and flow of the Force. She feels the rush of creation, a burst of power and hope and joy so profound it renders her frozen. 

When Rey is able to open her eyes, a finished lightsaber floats just above her outstretched palms; close enough for her to feel the heat of fused metal against her skin. 

With utmost reverence, she grasps the hilt. The crystals hum as one - an approving, almost _delighted_ note that warms her soul. She ignites the blade, and finds herself bathed in brilliant white light. 

Triumph pulses around her; a feeling of such rightness that it steals her breath. But, lingering at the edge is the cold sting of dread. 

With every fibre of her being, Rey prays her weapon will never see use in combat against Ben Solo.

* * *

That night, Rey’s subconscious - and the Force - elect to be kind. Her dreams are blessedly free of Ben Solo in any iteration; and come morning there is no lingering scent or stray hairs to suggest his presence whilst she had slumbered. 

Relief unfurls in her chest like a flower in bloom. But - more than she would willingly acknowledge - that relief is tinged with regret.

She rises with the sun, even though her bunkmates slumber on. As she performs her morning ablutions, her gaze falls upon Kaydel and Jannah - even in the sticky heat of night, they have curled around one another like vines. Jealousy stabs at her; and once again that nuisance scar seems to pricke. 

She shakes her head, as if rid herself of unwelcome thoughts, and straps her saber to her belt. The feels at once familiar and foreign. With every touch, she can sense the crystals humming, their unique energy signature entwining with her own. Anticipation bubbles within her, and she almost contemplates skipping breakfast to properly try out the weapon.

At that notion, Rey’s stomach gives a growl. She smirks. Food, then training.

The base is oddly tranquil at this hour; sunlight falls in ribbons through the jungle canopy. A few rodents scurry underfoot, startled by the presence. The zymods have long since vanished, and she wonders briefly if the creatures have finally caught wind of the fate of their disappeared brethren… Her stumble gives another impatient whine _._

But before Rey reaches the mess tent, a familiar Force signature brushes against hers, and all thought of food is quashed.

A heartbeat later, Mara appears - leaning against a tree and trying to affect a nonchalant pose. But fingers worry through her hair, and her Force signature crackles and swirls with an anxious energy. 

“Morning,” her mentor says with a strained brightness. 

“You're back,” Rey replies, petulance clouding her features.

Mara nods. “Just got in last night.” She then gestures vaguely at Rey's waist; her demeanour loses its nervous edges and an unmistakable pride glows in her eyes. “I see you've been busy in my absence. Congratulations.”

“There didn't seem any point in waiting around,” Rey offers, half in rebuke, half in explanation. Her fingers unconsciously brush the saber hilt, and the crystals within give a calming thrum.

“No, and quite right too.” Mara huffs a laugh. She fumbles in her satchel for a moment, pulling out a ration pack and tossing it to Rey. “Eat,” she explains when she spot’s the younger woman's quizzical expression, and gestures for her to follow. 

They pick their way through the trees, until they reach the clearing they had used for their last training session. A litany of questions dance on Rey's tongue; but she merely chews her portion and follows Mara in mullish silence. 

The jungle still bears the evidence of her battle with the seeker droid; trees denuded of their branches, and their bark permanently scarred from ricocheted blaster fire.

Mara suddenly stops and lays her hand over one such mark. She sighs, heavy as the universe itself. When her gaze returns to Rey, it looks as though all vitality is being sapped from her. “Look, there's no easy way to bring this up… But what the kriff is going on between you and Ben Solo?”

Her words collide in the air with the force of a storm. Rey blinks; jaw slack and impossibly wide-eyed. Her lips - suddenly parched - move soundlessly for a moment, before she manages to rasp, “How did you know?”

A strange smile tugs at Mara's lips. “You know, there was a part of me that almost expected you to deny it. But you’re honest, kid - _too_ honest.” She grips Rey's palm - now clammy - and tugs her to sit on a tree branch strewn in the clearing. “I saw you together. On Lah'mu. Although, from what I gather,” she adds with an arched brow, “There was a near miss on Coruscant as well?”

It takes far more effort than Rey expected to nod. When her voice emerges again, it is oddly frail. “He found me in the Archives. It wasn’t planned, I swear. Neither of us had any idea the other was on Coruscant until…”

Mara rests a hand on Rey's forearm. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let's start from the beginning. How did you and Ben…” She gestures vaguely. Her posture is tense, but not angry. Curiosity dances along her Force signature, but there is something almost serene and hopeful there too. 

After all, Mara too had once fallen for her adversary… That thought finally frees Rey's voice; and when the words tumble from her lips, it is a relief.

Mara listens as Rey recounts her tale - one of kidnapping and mental invasion; lightsaber duels and an inconveniently persistent Force bond. Her voice begins to waver as she describes that moment in a smoke-filled hut, a hitherto unsuspected gentleness and understanding building between them; a touch across the stars; and a false vision that had irrevocably altered the course of galactic history…

“I went to Ben because I thought I could help him turn,” Rey says, the remembered sting of dejection piercing her heart like thorns. “And he betrayed me to Snoke. I thought…” Her breath shudders, and her eyes grow glassy. “I thought they - that Ben - was going to kill me. That it had all been for nothing. But something changed in Ben - and instead _he_ killed Snoke.” A strangled laugh escapes her. “I thought he had done it for me - to protect me - and that he had finally broken free of the Darkness. I was a fool.” The next blink knocks lose her tears; the rest of her tale is spoken in thick whispers as she fights sobs that threaten to consume her.

“Kriff…” Mara murmurs, her eyes wide even as a neutral expression settles across her features. And suddenly Rey finds herself pulled into an embrace, her tears soaking into Mara's shirt. Soothing hands rub her back, coaxing out pathetic whimpers until she feels she can cry no more. Her eyes sting, her throat is parched, but alongside the agony in her chest, something else blossoms. A lightness, a _relief._

When she finally lifts her head to gaze at Mara, both their cheeks are wet with tears.

Mara tucks a stray hair behind Rey’s ear, before clearing her throat. “So… I'm guessing he was also the reason you didn’t flee Coruscant despite my _explicit_ instructions to do so.” Though her tone is chiding, mirth - and something that might even be mistaken for _approval -_ sparkles in her gaze. “Did he ask you to stay, or was it your own choice?”

Rey’s lips part - but a sudden thought pricks at her, and now she gazes at her mentor through narrowed eyes. “How did you know Ben was in the Archives?” She asks slowly, her heart pounding in her ears.

“Well…” Mara bites her lip, and smiles guiltily. “I suppose it’s time for a confession on my part as well. Ben told me. Of course, he omitted to mention _you_ were there too - but since I already knew that part…”

"You… You've been in contact with Ben?" Something - not quite _hurt_ \- flares in Rey. 

Mara, and has the grace to look almost abashed. “Seems you aren't the only one who decided to pay the First Order a direct visit,” she deadpans, and a hint of pride mingled with exasperation leeches into her tone. “After seeing you two together - well, as together as you can be via a Force bond, I suppose - I figured if you weren't going to volunteer the information, then there was someone else who _might_ be a little less taciturn.”

“You never asked me,” Rey points out, even as emotions rattle like a sandstorm within her chest. 

“True,” Mara says in a conciliatory tone, bowing her head. “But I've always been completely honest with you about who and what I am. Or what I've done. Did it ever cross your mind that maybe I’m the one person alive who would _understand_ what it's like to fall in love with someone every impulse tells you should hate?” Now, she snaps her eyes to Rey, her gaze so unequivocally earnest that her pupil squirms in discomfort.

“I am _not_ in love with him,” is the sole retort Rey can muster. At the words, her scar smarts beneath its fabric band, the crystals in her saber _whine_ loud enough for her to hear, and a soft _ha_ escapes Mara's lips. A flush crosses her face and neck, and her heart gives a traitorous flutter.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, kid,” Mara says without heat. She reaches once for Rey's hand. “Now, onto other matters. How much does Leia know about all of this?”

 _Leia_. Thinking of Ben's mother - and the lies and deceit Rey has been party to in keeping their connection from her - feels like a lash against her heart. 

She shakes her head. “Nothing; unless Chewie…” Her voice cracks, the guilt surges once more. She clears her throat. “Are you going to tell her?” 

“Leia deserves to know, Rey. Maker knows she could use some hope.” Mara pauses, and rubs a hand over her face. “But… Whatever your secrets, they aren't mine to divulge.”

Rey blinks; a dizzying relief floods her body, and she manages to stammer out a “thank you.”

“You’re welcome, kid,” Mara says gently. “Just so you know, I also won’t be telling her about my little chat with Ben, and I hope you’ll grant me the same discretion. But remember, Rey… secrets have a mind of their own, and often they come out no matter what precautions you take or knots you tie yourself in to keep them. And - assuming I have this correctly - neither you nor Ben have any control over when it connects you?” A puzzled expression settles over Rey's features, but she nods. “In which case, be mindful that Leia may stumble across you and Ben before you muster the resolve to talk to her, and think how much more _awkward_ that would be than the alternative.”

Unbidden, the notion of Leia stumbling across them during one of these nocturnal Force bonds - chaste as they are - enters Rey's mind. The image is so indecent that she barks a laugh, and is soon doubled over with it. Tension seeps from her, and Mara's bewilderment only seems to heighten the humour of the moment.

“Well, as amusing as this is,” Mara deadpans, unable to conceal her sly grin, “That brings me to another point. Now, the exact nature of your physical relationship with my nephew, I don't need to know. But promise me that, _if_ you two are being… _intimate…_ ” Mortification grows on Rey's face, and her laughter dies in the air. “That you’re taking precautions. Because, right now, the galaxy is on the edge of a vibro-blade. As is Ben’s position within the First Order. There are plenty of hungry wolves waiting to pounce on him if he shows any weakness. The last thing we need is the fallout if you two were to conceive.”

And suddenly all sound evaporates but the sound of Ben's voice singing that soft melody from her dream, and the gurgling coo of their child… 

“ _Those you have loved but are gone.”_

Or never to exist…

Grief for a child and future she will never know ensnares Rey's heart. Her voice wavers as she says, “You've got nothing to fear on that count, Mara.” 

Still, her mentor arches an eyebrow. “Well, it's something to bear in mind regardless. Romance is a lot like battle, sometimes. Unexpected things can happen in the heat of the moment and it never hurts to be prepared.” A yawn suddenly escapes Mara, and she stretches like a Loth-cat in the sun. “Sorry,” she says with a shake of her head. “I was going to offer you a test session with that new saber of yours, but I think I'm going to catch up on my rest instead.” A wry smile fills her features. “Age is simultaneously a privilege and a nuisance, Rey, and one I hope you get to endure and enjoy some day.”

Rey chuckles, even as the image of that dark-haired baby cradled against it’s father’s chest _burns_ behind her eyelids. 

“Sleep well," she tells Mara. "And… thank you."

Mara nods. “You're welcome.” She turns to head in the direction of the _Jade's Fire._ Her eyes glisten with with unshed tears, and her shoulders sag beneath the weight of the galaxy and it’s secrets.

* * *

The remainder of the day passes in a haze. That little anxious knot that had lived in Rey's gut since Crait feels looser. She had always feared that others would consider her tainted by this Force bond at best, or a liability at worst. But Mara - despite her initial annoyance - gave no air of judgment. In fact, Rey could almost sense an undercurrent of _approval._

Once dinner has been eaten, and she has completed her share of mess duties, Rey heads back to their tent whilst the remainder of her friends - Mara and Chewie included - settle down to another evening of sabacc. Kaydel makes a good-natured joke about Rey turning into a monk, but she simply shrugs it off. 

She strips down to her basics for bed, peeling sweat-soaked clothing from her skin with a sigh. She remembers the cold, biting rain of Ahch-To, and finds herself longing for the chill wind and sea-spray against her skin. Even the icy cold of that dreaded mirror cave would be a relief against the smouldering jungle heat.

The sheets are cool - and more importantly, the bed _empty_ \- as she climbs into it. She and Rose had spent the afternoon building a rudimentary fan system using parts scavenged from the _Falcon_ ; it rattles noisily, but her skin sings as the worst of the heat is alleviated. Her eyelids feel heavy, and even the clanging of the air conditioning is not enough to keep her from sleep.

She wakes briefly as her bunkmates stumble back to their tent hours later - Jannah’s _shush_ is paradoxically louder than Kaydel’s giggling - but soon their soft snores fill the air, and Rey welcomes the embrace of slumber once more.

Hovering on the edge between dreams, a low moan pierces her reverie. A moan she recognises as her own name. She scrunches her nose, and buries her face in the pillow to ignore it…

Only for the sound of a whimper - deep and masculine - to snap her to wakefulness. 

She becomes aware of the large body crammed against hers in the tiny cot. Ben's face is buried in her - no, _his_ pillow - and his entire frame seems to rattle with sobs. Each one scrapes through her soul.

Before she can rationalise her actions, Rey finds herself leaning over Ben, one hand entangled in the silken threads of his hair, and her lips but a breath from his ear. Her voice is hoarse from sleep, but the tune and words come easily.

_"Mirrorbright, shines the moon, its glow as soft as an ember."_

As her first note hits the air, it’s like a sedative has been pumped into his body. His tremors grow weak and then stop altogether; the sobs fade to silence. But still Rey sings, softly enough for only him to hear, feeling the tender caress of the melody envelope them both. 

" _Those you loved are with you still; the moon will help you remember."_

As her final note disappears into silence, she feels the warmth of his hand against hers where it resides in his hair. Ben turns his head to face her. Eyes that still gleam with tears regard Rey with mute appeal.

Part of her wants to pull away in embarrassment; to yank her hand from his luscious, soft hair and eject him from her bed. But the softness in his gaze stills her.

"You were having a nightmare," Rey murmurs, and he nods in response. "You said my name. Why?"

A short laugh escapes Ben. "Have a guess, Rey." He rubs a hand against his face, his chin now coarse with stubble. "You… you were singing." She bites her lip; nods. "That song… Where did you learn it?"

"I don't know," she lies; but the stiffening of her spine must give away the deceit. She throws up every mental shield she can, lest that beautiful, disturbing vision of their non-existent future spill over into his mind. "Why do you even care?"

"Because I doubt you picked up an Alderaanian lullaby on that Force-forsaken hellhole," Ben says crisply, and Maker, how his Force signature thrums with _jealousy._

“Lullaby…” she says, her mouth cradling the word. It sounds melodic and beautiful; like the song itself. 

A frown creases his features; he can sense the word is foreign to her. The jealousy dissipates and suddenly she finds herself enveloped in _empathy._ “It’s a song for children. To help them sleep,” he says in an oddly patient voice. A wordless _oh_ escapes her, but before she can speak, he continues, “My mother-” The word catches in his throat. “My mother used to sing it because she thought it might help ward off my nightmares.” Now a weary, bitter chuckle escapes him. “As if a mere song could banish Snoke.” 

And now that image of him singing to their child takes on a new sheen in Rey's mind. His song was more than the gesture of a loving and nurturing parent - bestowing the kind of affection that she herself had never known, she thinks with the sting of envy - but one of protection. A protection that his parents could not provide him with. Protection against a threat they could not perceive, but that had whispered poison into Ben’s infant’s mind… 

Revulsion clenches in her gut - on Ben's behalf, yes, but also at the idea of that tiny baby - her baby - being similarly targeted… She knows with blazing certainty that she would fight with every iota of her being to protect any child of theirs. 

_As would Ben…_

A jolt runs through Rey; as potent as if she had touched an exposed wire in the ruin of a Star Destroyer. With that, awakens a longing she thought had died in the bitter chill of that mirror cave… for family. But she had always pictured herself as the beloved child reunited with her parents. A fantasy now long dead. Never had she envisaged herself as a _mother_. And certainly never with this overwhelming yearning...

Her thoughts trail off as she feels a warm hand brush her cheek; even in darkness, Ben's eyes still gleam with unshed tears, but there is a tenderness in his gaze. Gratitude too. 

Even now, vestiges of the nightmare still cling to him - his chest heaves with panicked breaths, and she feels the pounding of his heat within her own chest. His thin black shirt - a concession he has almost certainly made for her benefit, she thinks with a twinge of guilt - is drenched in sweat. Though but a few inches separate their bodies, she can feel the heat and damp against her bare skin. 

“I still hear him in my dreams,” Ben whispers as his thumb draws small circles beneath her eye. “He’s been dead for months now, but part of him is still…” He taps two fingers to his temple. “I think he might always exist as an echo, one that will torment me until my final breath."

“He was a monster,” Rey whispers in return. She reaches for Ben's free hand, and manoeuvres it to the miniscule space between their bodies. Even in the sticky heat, her skin now feels ice cold. “But you killed him. You defeated him. He’s only a voice now. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Ben tilts his head until his brow is pressed to hers. Warm, sleep-stale breath washes over her, and she has to fight how _right_ this feels. How a soothing contentment bubbles within her at his proximity. 

“But that doesn’t change the fact that he made me a monster,” he says bitterly.

Regret simmers in Rey’s chest. Gazing upon Ben, she doesn’t see a demon - no matter what the spectre of him had done in her memories, what bloodshed and brutality she knows has been wrought on the blade of his lightsaber. The facade is long shattered. All she sees now, in tear-stained eyes and lips that trembles, is a soul as lonely and broken as her own.

“You’re not a monster,” she murmurs. “Not to me.”

In silence - punctured only by the incessant clatter of the fan, and Kaydel's throaty snores - they cry together. One hand still in his, Rey cups his cheek with the other. Ben leans into her touch, and his breathing hitches. His lips - parched as the desert, yet still so pillowy soft - glance against her palm.

Fatigue clings to them both; but the bond hums with quiet serenity, lulling them both to a dreamless slumber.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical inspiration/devastation: Everything I Wanted by Billie Eilish, and My Tears Ricochet by Taylor Swift.
> 
> Up next... What's Uncle Lando been up to? 👀


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